[conleches]

some fucking resources for all ur writing fuckin needs

body language masterlist

a translator that doesn’t eat ass like google translate does

a reverse dictionary for when ur brain freezes

550 words to say instead of fuckin said

638 character traits for when ur brain freezes again

some more body language help 

[bellero]

REBLOG TO SAVE A WRITER

[mcybank]

Tender — Jack Abbot

pairing — jack abbot x college!reader

summary — the worst-cared-for girl in the county keeps washing up in jack’s er, and he can’t help but start paying attention.

warnings — 19.2k. large age gap (jack’s fifty/reader’s in twenties), doctor/patient dynamic initially, power imbalance (attending/nursing student, age, life experience), yearning!jack, protective!jack, jealous!jack, and literally every single word in the book, mutual pining, slow burn, he falls first, hurt/comfort, reader shows signs of adhd but it isn’t explicit, alcohol use (recurrent drunkenness, mention of alcohol poisoning, ER, and repeated intoxication played somewhat lightly), loneliness/self isolation, low self-worth, it’s very difficult for her to accept care, lack of family support/implied estrangement, financial stress and overworking, she’s also spending an unrealistic amt of time hanging out in the ed but it’s fanfic so it’s ok, jokes about financial stress, injuries (sprains, split lip, bruising, gravel burns), medical setting, blood, referenced patient death (patient dies, off-page, Jack grieves), making out/heavy kissing, suggestiveeee content (thumb-in-mouth beat, grinding) but nothing explicit. 

notes — oops sorry this fic is so so self-indulgent 🫶 i literally loved writing them tho i was thinking about them for days on end. tried to take a swing at this based on this idea i had + thank you @ker0senebunny for inspriring the shoe scene!!!! inspired by this post + my er visits where i was literally the worst patient ever

Friday and Saturday after midnight, the board filled up with the same predictable words; alcohol poisonings, bar-fight lacerations, the kids who’d taken things they couldn’t name and showed up convinced they were dying when they were mostly just twenty and having a large thought. Jack triaged it on autopilot, and he’d stopped finding any of it interesting somewhere around year seven. 

Sure, sometimes there were some cases that got a mild laugh out of him or turned his head. There was a kid who’d superglued his halloween mask on his own face for a dare. The guy who’d lost a bet and swallowed something he wouldn’t name in front of his mother, who was present and furious. The occasional genuinely strange thing the human body did that still, after all these years, made Jack think huh, that’s interesting, the small grim curiosity that was about the only part of the job the years hadn’t fully sanded down. He kept those and told them to new nurses over shitty coffee at four a.m. because he supposed that was a better story than what he could say about the Middle East. 

The first time you came in, he’d handed you over to Shen. You were a sprained wrist and a BAC that explained the wrist, sixteen other things were louder, and Shen was free then. 

He’d clocked you for half a second on his way to a GI bleed in bay nine: girl on the gurney, one heel too high on, and one somewhere in the greater metropolitan area, some little pink lace-trimmed thing sliding off one shoulder, telling Shen with enormous seriousness that she was so sorry, she didn’t usually do this, she’d had a singular margarita. Only.

Singular. He’d categorized it under the thousand other single margaritas he’d sworn to in this department and forgotten you before he’d reached the bleed. 

The second time, he didn’t take you either, but he noticed the wrist. 

Same wrist. Different night — a Saturday, three weeks in, the sort of shift where the waiting room sounded like a kennel — and he caught it sideways while he reviewed another chart. It was the same left wrist, taped this time, the nails on that one hand done in some soft pinky color gone chipped at the tips as though the week itself outlasted the manicure, somebody walking you through the discharge paperwork you clearly were ignoring. Something thought for him instead of him thinking much for it, some pattern-recognition thing buried under twenty-some years of reading bodies fast, the same instinct that made him glance twice at something almost normal. A wrist that kept coming back, he supposed. A thread snagging on a nail, there and gone. 

The third time, it was Shen, breezing past the station with his Dunkin, saying over his shoulder, “Frequent flyer’s back.” 

He shrugged, not yet placing that you were the frequent flyer, and went to bed four.

And that — somewhere between the third time and a number he stopped keeping an honest count of — was where it stopped being a chart and became some sort of thing. A bit, he’d say. The nights the bars let out and the board lit up, he’d find himself reading the incoming names a half-second longer than triage required, and feeling something wrong in his chest when yours wasn’t in them. 

Pittsburgh was notoriously interesting, Jack learned through you, in that it apparently contained an infinite supply of ways a girl could get herself in trouble. He was convinced he could’ve drawn a map of the city by your injuries. There was the ankle, of course, a recurring grievance, always the shoes, never your fault. There was one time you’d burned your hand on a curling iron getting ready tipsy and come in more upset about the makeup you’d had to redo (because of crying it off) than the blister. The night you’d gone over in a parking lot because you refused to look at the ground while walking — looking at the ground, while drunk, you informed him, was how you trip — and the time you sliced your finger open trying to shotgun a White Claw with a key because someone had bet you couldn’t. You were really proud of the last one, you’d won the bet. 

You were never the same disaster twice, he had to give you that. A little too keen on busting yourself up here and there, sure, but at least it was the wrist once, then a knee that met a curb, then a memorable evening involving a fence you’d been certain you could clear. You came in apologizing — always apologizing, to him, to the nurses, once, memorably, to the wall — and you came in sweet, which was the part that got under him, because drunk people in this ER were a lot of things and sweet was rarely one of them. 

“Mmm,” you hummed the fourth or fifth time, the second your eyes found him through the gap in the curtain, going boneless with relief like Jack was the cavalry and not the man who was meant to flash light into your eyes for thirty seconds. “The pretty one.” 

Jack let out a huff. “Thanks, doll.” 

“Doll,” you repeated, the word going gummy in your mouth. “He calls me doll.”

“Eyes open. Follow the light.” 

“You call everyone that, Dr. Abbot?” you said, his name coming out in a cluster like you were losing thread of it, the Abbot dissolving into something closer to a hum. 

“Sure do,” he lied. “Track the light.”

You looked at his mouth, then his hands, then back up, a slow uncoordinated sweep because your eyes had stopped reporting to anything in particular, much less what they had to. Pupils blown wide and lazy. He thumbed your eyelid up a fraction to get the light where he needed it; your lashes were clumped and starry with whatever mascara had survived the night. 

He held the penlight steady and waited you out. He had nowhere to be. That was the thing about the dead hours after bars closed; the bleed had been signed up to the floor, the chest pain turned out to be a panic attack and a large energy drink, and there was just you, and the saline ticking into your arm one slow drop at a time. 

“What’d you get up to tonight?” he murmured, thumb finding the pulse at your wrist, counting without meaning to.

“S’fast ‘cause you’re here,” you said, sounding very pleased with yourself.

“Sure it is. Where’d you hurt yourself tonight?”

“... stairs,” you said after a moment, like your brain had to run a few laps to get to the word. 

“Oh, yeah?” He hummed. You lifted your free hand a little off the mattress, lost track of it, and dropped it back down. “How many?” 

“Mm. Four?” You squinted at the ceiling. “Maybe three. I dunno. Not the Great Wall or somethin’. Promise.” 

“I believe you.” He nodded, then turned your forearm to the light, finding the scrape you’d come in with. It was gravel-burn, raw, the heel of your hand and a stripe up your wrist. Nothing that needed more than cleaning. You watched him do it with your head tipped against the pillow, gone quiet so the talking had run out for a second, which never lasted.

“Should I get a better first aid kit?” you asked, then clenched your jaw for a second like you felt something was wrong with it. “S’I don’t have to bother you all the time?” 

“Might be a good idea to invest,” he said. He pulled the swab through the gravel-burn slowly, and you hissed and tried to pull back the hand on reflex. “Easy.” He kept it, his grip light yet unmoving around your fingers. “Almost done. Don’t fight me.”

You hummed, like you wanted a different answer.

Jack wet his lips, shaking his head slightly. He worked the grit out of the scrape, a fleck of it catching raw skin, and he tilted your arm to the light, getting it on the second pass, and wiped it on the gauze. Your hands twitched in his, and he pressed your fingers flat to the mattress with his thumb, and they stayed.

“You’d have to do it yourself, though,” he said. “Bathroom sink at three in the morning with one hand.” He reached for fresh gauze. “You’d make a mess of it.”

You frowned at the ceiling, nodding. “Sounds a little bad.”

“It’s a lot bad.” He laid the gauze over the scrape, thumbed the tape down at the edge of your wrist slowly, smoothing it flat where it wanted to lift. His knuckle dragged once over the thin skin there, and he felt your pulse jump under it. “You’d scar, probably.” His thumb passed the chipped polish, the chunky gold ring you’d kept on, even for this. “You’ve got nice hands. Shame to wreck ‘em over the sink.”

It took you a second. “You think so?”

“Don’t wreck ‘em.” 

“You like when I come in,” you said, delighted. 

“What I’d like,” he said, flat, lifting his eyes to yours, “is you off the stairs and down to the one drink.” His thumb settled over the back of your hand again. “But if you’re set on flinging yourself down, then you come here. Deal?”

Your fingers had curled around two of his somewhere in there loosely, without you noticing. He felt them settle, and he held very still so as to not spook you. He chose to not acknowledge it or look at it.

“Deal,” you mumbled, somewhere far off, probably forgetting the front half of the terms. 

He let it go at that, taping down the last edge and turning over your wrist once more to be sure of it. Then he set your hand back on the mattress, yours still loosely hooked through his, going nowhere.

“Anyone out there to get you home?” he asked. 

“Dunno.” Your nose scrunched. “Was gonna Uber.”

He sighed through his nose. “Where’s that girl — the one you came in with last time? Why don’t you call her?” 

“That’s annoying, Dr. Abbot,” you said, almost in a whine. 

“Yeah?” He kept looking at the wall behind you. “What’s annoying about a ride home?” 

“Calling people. Making it a thing.” Your free hand flopped vaguely. “Then they gotta come get you, and they’re all — have to be nice about it, but you can tell.” Your nose scrunched. “It’s a whole production.”

He pressed his thumb flat back over your hand where your fingers were still caught in his. 

“Oh? Nothing annoying about it, sweetheart. You call, she comes. Simple as that.” He turned to face you. “But if you insist on it, I’m not signing you off until you’re good enough to go home alone. So you call your girl, or you sit right here and keep my department company till you’ve cleared enough that I’ll sign off on it.” 

Your eyes narrowed as you looked at him as though he’d spoken a different language. “Second one?”

“Obviously you pick that one,” he said. 

He pulled the stool over and sat. For a few minutes, he had nowhere to be, and now, apparently, neither did you.

It wasn’t that you simply didn’t let people help you, either. Jack had never seen anyone so committed to being simply fine. Jack had met the stoic kind before; construction guys who walked in with rebar through a forearm acting like it was a small inconvenience; old ladies who’d been having a heart attack since last Tuesday and didn’t want to be a bother. But Jack had always believed those people to be suppressing, and you were just convinced, somewhere down in the foundation, that needing anything was an imposition. 

That was also why the shoes confused him so much. 

“This is the same damn ankle,” Jack said, turning your foot in his hands, watching the swelling outside of it. 

“You don’t have to remind me. Most men buy me a drink before they get this familiar with my ankles,” you said, then groaned as you looked at his eyes going over the swelling. 

“No drink.” He pressed along the bone. “Not my fault you keep handing your ankle to me.” 

You tipped your head back against the pillow, groaning again. “Dr. Abbot, they look so bad. I feel like I’m pregnant.” 

“I can do a quick blood draw and we can rule it out.” His palm flattened on the mattress beside your feet, leaning over to meet your eyes again. “But I think it’s those heels of yours, doll.” 

Your eyes snapped to him. “Don’t be a dick, Dr. Abbot.”

He tilted his head, then pointed at the laminated paper stuck to the wall. “Aggressive behavior of any kind toward healthcare workers is a felony.” 

“Then arrest me, doctor. I’ll die on this hill — and they’re not heels.” Your lips pursed, and the corner of your mouth kicked up. “Cuffs may be a little forward for a date, but I won’t stop you.” 

“Aren’t you just so sweet,” he muttered. “What are they, then?”

“Bottega Lido Mules.”

The words meant absolutely nothing to him — could’ve been a pasta dish, a town in Italy, a wine — but they clearly did to you, so he remembered them. 

“That’s nice, doll. They’ll be the reason I see you again.” 

“Maybe, ‘cause I’ll never stop wearing them.” 

You said the words your whole face, hands coming off the mattress to make the point with a drunk theatrical conviction as you argued something that genuinely mattered to you. Jack thought, not for the first time since he’d met you, that you’d have been magnetic stone-sober at a dinner party, the kind of girl that made a table lean in. It was just that he only ever got the 3am version.

At least you had a hill you’d die on and didn’t apologize for, Jack supposed. 

“You married, Doctor?” you asked as he started icing your ankle. 

“No,” he said, holding your eyes for a second. “Why — you got a boyfriend I should know about, then?” 

He almost wished you did have one. He wished that there were somebody whose name you’d have said just now who’d be in the waiting room with his jaw tight because you’d gone and hurt yourself again. Somebody who’d take care of the ankle when you walked out of here in crutches, who took the keys when you had too many. He wished there was a person in the world whose job you were. 

And you weren’t his first patient who he’d understood to not have someone taking care of them. He knew that if he carried them all, he’d drown inside a month if he tried to be the person nobody else had been. He’d never once had it turn into a wish, standing here with an ice pack in his hand going slack in his hand because he was too busy resenting someone who didn’t exist for not being in the waiting room. 

He wondered when down the line you’d stopped letting the people in your life around you be the ones you could call, became a girl who said sorry for bleeding and had nobody, nobody, and looked at him like he was the warmest place she’d been in all week.

You laughed. “If I had a boyfriend, would I be laying it on so thick?” 

He let out a breath through his nose, despite himself. “Stop wearing the heels, doll. Not nice to not have a foot.”

The next time you came in, it was a Thursday. With some pileup of bad luck, you came in somewhere past one with a split lip and a story about a dance floor he only half got the shape of. Jack hadn’t even been assigned to you yet, he’d just seen your name on the board, and reassigned himself quietly enough that dared anyone on shift to comment. Nobody did. 

“Lip’s not bad,” he said, tilting your chin up under the light, thumb at your jaw. The split was already going fat and shining at the center of your lower lip, and he found his eyes stayed on your mouth a second past the part that was his job, on the soft unhurt swell of it under the hurt. He moved his thumb. “Doesn’t need anything. You bit it when you fell down. That’s all.”

“S’throbbing, Doctor,” you mumbled, the word coming around muffled around the split. 

“It’ll throb. You’ve got a swollen lip.” He let go of your jaw and reached for the penlight. “Eyes on me.” 

“I was so cute before this,” you said through a groan. 

The huff that came out of him was almost a laugh, dragged out against his own will, and he shared a fleeting look with Bennet — a fairly new nurse — who had tilted his head briefly and was too afraid to meet your eyes.

“Alright. Still the prettiest girl I’ve treated tonight,” Jack said when your brows had furrowed together.

“You treat other girls?” 

“It’s a hospital,” he said. “Few hundred a week.”

Your face looked wounded. “Few hundred.”

He leaned in slightly, faking a whisper. “You’re my top three.”

You were further gone than usual tonight. He’d noticed it the second he came around the curtain, the way your head was having a hard time holding itself up, the loose unmoored swim of your eyes that took longer than it should to find his finger. A piece of hair had come loose and stuck to the gloss at the corner of your mouth and you hadn’t the coordination to deal with it, and he had the unprofessional impulse to, and didn’t. 

Bennet kept working the blood pressure cuff up your arm, half an eye on you, half on his own work. 

“Track the light,” Jack murmured. “Slowly.”

“Too bright.”

“Tough.” The corner of his mouth moved up slightly. “You can bat your lashes at me when we’re done. Right now, I need ‘em open.” 

You batted them anyway, slowly and theatrically, just to be a problem about it. They were long, and the theater of it was so ridiculous, and Jack had to bite down the inside of his cheek to keep his face flat to wait you out, until you gave up and tracked the finger. Your pupils were reactive, equal, and lagging half-a-beat behind. He clicked the light off. 

“Too bright,” you said again. 

“It’s off,” he drawled, chuckling. 

Bennett thread a line into the back of your free hand, and you watched him sink it with a drowsy focus. 

“Why’s it go in the back of the hand?” you mumbled. “More nerves there. Hurts more. Why not the — inside. By the elbow.” You tilted your head slightly to let your eyes wander to the crook of your arm. “Bigger vein. The antec—antecubital,” you said carefully, sounding out each syllable, afraid of messing it up. You wet your lips and turned to face him, then Bennet. “Why’s nobody use the good one?” 

Jack pursed his lips and looked at you for a moment. 

“Saves the good one,” he said, catching up, eyes going back to your chart. “AC vein blows easily when somebody’s moving around, and you —” He tipped his head at you, raising a brow, the squirming drunk of you. “ — Are gonna move around. Back of the hand’ll hold. I’d rather you be sore than re-stuck twice ‘cause you couldn’t sit pretty for thirty seconds.” He paused as he saw your eyes glaze over. He sighed. “Ask me how I know that about you.” 

You’d gone busy, lips moving slightly like you were repeating it back to yourself so it’d stick, and Jack felt something in his chest shift a degree as he watched you do it. 

He sighed, dragging a palm over the lower half of his face. “Where’d you learn that, then?” 

“School,” you said to the ceiling, a small hint of pride taking over your voice. “M’gonna become a nurse. Gonna be good at it.”

Bennet snorted, finishing the tape. “Gonna be patching up drunk girls just like you then, huh,” he said. “Full circle.”

Jack watched the pride go out of your face slowly, like a house losing its power. Your chin dropped and your eyes slid from Bennet to the curtain as your hand fisted in your lap. 

“Yeah,” you said, almost curiously. “Guess so.” 

Jack’s jaw clenched involuntarily. It wasn’t the guy’s fault, not really. It was a nothing joke, the sort the whole department tossed off a hundred times a shift, the gallows shorthand that kept you sane at two in the morning. Jack had made worse about patients who’d never know, about drunks who wouldn’t remember, about exactly this, exactly girls like you. He’d just never had one of them go quiet before, watched the bright thing fold itself up and get tucked away. 

“Bennet, you done?” 

“Yeah, line’s good — ”

“Then go take vitals on six. I’ve got her.”

Bennet went, and it was just the two of you again. 

Jack pulled the stool over with his foot and sat — lower than he had to, level with you, taking himself out of the column of people standing over you tonight and telling you what you were — and waited until your eyes came up off the curtain and found him.

“There she is,” he said when your eyes found him. He turned your taped hand over under the light like there was still something to do with it. There wasn’t, he just wanted his hands on something of yours while he undid what the room had done. “Look at me. Nothing good on the curtain.” 

“How’s school treating you then, doll?” he asked, aiming for offhand and not steering you off whatever Bennet had knocked loose.

“Hard,” you said, but a small smile had crawled up your lips. “But I like it.” Your shoulders came up loosely.

“Yeah?” He kept his thumb moving over the back of your hand slowly, like he could press the bright thing back up to the surface where it belonged. “I think you’ll be good at it.” 

It was such a strange feeling, Jack distantly noticed, to feel this utter conviction. He was rarely sure of anything good anymore. Sure of plenty else; sure within ten seconds of a bad rhythm which way the night was going to break, sure of which of the kids wheeled in at 2 am he’d see again and which he wouldn’t, a grim accumulated certainty that had nothing in it he’d ever wanted to be right about.

The job had made him an expert on the downslope of things. He could read the exact moment a body wanted to quit better than he could read most of what people said to his face. And here you were, and he was so sure of the other direction, and he felt the same weight of it behind his sternum, except it had swung and pointed at something good for once. You were going to be excellent at this. 

It bothered him a little, how much he wanted to be there to see it, whoever you were going to be once you stopped washing up on his floor on the worst nights of your week. He’d known you, what, a handful of shifts as a frequent flyer, a bit, a name his eyes unconsciously caught on. He had no business feeling certain of anything about you, and he was, and he’d let himself feel it. 

Your eyes found him properly again. “Liar.”

He huffed out a short laugh. “Tell you what. You finish that program, you get through all that mess where they try to drown you.” His thumb smoothed over the tape. “Then you come find me here and we’ll see if we can get you here with me on nights. Clearly you’re at your finest then.” 

It was maybe something silly to say, and Gloria may have his head for it. He had no actual standing to say anything like it, even though you’d never remember it. He knew better; hope was a controlled substance in his field and he was stingy with it on purpose, because he’d seen the withdrawal.

But God, he’d love to see the part of you he could only catch glimpses of through the wreck like a light under the door. He’d love to be the one who taught you which arrogance to keep and which to let the job take away. He’d love, plainly and without anywhere to put it, to watch you become who you’d just told him you were going to be. 

It was a lot of loving for a girl who’d been in his department and wouldn’t recall his face or a word of this by tomorrow morning. He was getting sentimental, or old, or both; the years stacked up behind his eyes until he started mistaking everything for a second chance at something. 

Your lips moved. “So I can patch girls up like myself?” 

“Nah.” He kept looking at your hand. “You can patch up old bastards like me, too.” Then, he pointed his index finger of his free hand at you, mock-stern. “Gotta make sure you’re not at point three BAC, though. Will have to do that work to get you working with me.”

“Mm.” Your eyes flickered up to the ceiling, weighing it with the enormous gravity of the very drunk as though he’d posed a very real proposition to you. “Okay. For you, I’d stop.”

“For me?” he repeated, mostly to buy himself a second.

“Mm-hm.” You turned your face to him and said it with such ease, no glance away to leave yourself an exit. “You’re worth not drinkin’ over.”

Your words went in clean, the way the best and worst things do, under the ribs where he kept nothing armored because nobody ever aimed there. Jack felt the back of his neck go warm and was abruptly, intensely grateful for the light that wouldn’t display it. 

Jack huffed, having to look away at the floor then. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all year, and you’re not gonna remember it. Hell of a thing.” 

When he made himself look back up, you’d tipped your face into the pillow, watching him from the side with your eyes gone soft and heavy, the smile arriving unguarded across your mouth. The split tugged one corner of it, that small wince folded right into the sweetness, and you seemed to not feel it. 

He had the sudden, idiotic wish to have met you on a night you’d remember. To have perhaps caught you when you fell at the bar, to have been the stranger whose arm happened to be there, not the doctor it eventually routed you to. Perhaps he could’ve been a man in your night instead of a stop in it.

He shook his head. “You’re trouble, you know that, right? Saying all these nice things. What’s a man supposed to do with that?” 

He’d have liked to have been remembered, was the bottom of it. By you specifically. He’d spent decades being the man people were grateful to and glad to forget.

“What’s your name, Doctor Abbot?” you asked, drowsy.

He looked down at his badge, then back up at you. “Take a wild guess?” Then, he added, “You never looked at my badge?” 

“Sorry. Didn’t read.” 

“Don’t apologize to me. It’s Jack.”

Jack was doing his usual rounds this Friday, on a rush from a chest pain in two that turned out to be a panic attack and a kid in five who’d put a kitchen knife through the meat of his own palm trying to halve a frozen bagel when Ellis caught him by the elbow at the board.

“Heads up, Abbot,” she said, grinning. She nodded toward triage, toward the doors. “Bed three. Your, uh—” The grin tipped over, delighted with itself. “Girlfriend’s got a boyfriend.” 

It was a running thing now. Somewhere around the fourth or fifth time you’d washed up on his shift the staff had started on it — your frequent flyer, your stray, your girl’s back — and Jack had stopped bothering to deny it because that’d only feed it, and he’d learned not denying it had a way of starving the joke faster. 

He looked, and was immediately able to notice what you weren’t doing more than what you were; you weren’t grinning at the ceiling, weren’t doing that boneless sweet-relief thing. You were sitting up too straight on the bed, hands folded in your lap, and there was a guy fitted to the chair beside you with one arm slung along the back of yours and a hand resting on your knee like he’d put it there to mark the spot. He was saying something low to the side of your face, and you were nodding at it, and not looking at anybody.

Jack felt a muscle tick in his jaw, immediately not feeling anything nice about the situation. “I got it — you mind taking six for me? I’ll come in a couple minutes.” 

By the time he’d made it to you, he’d settled his face into something unbothered. You could read it, he’d realized at some point during your frequent visits, and that only meant he had to be on his better behavior around you. 

“Evening.” He pulled the curtain half-round behind him, glanced at the chart clipped to the foot of the bed, then at you. “What’d we do tonight?”

“She caught an elbow,” the guy answered. “Some asshole on the dance floor. It’s nothing — she’s fine. She’s just a lightweight, aren’t you — ” A little squeeze on your knee. “ — didn’t even really need to come in, but y’know. Better safe.” 

You weren’t a lightweight, he immediately wanted to correct. He’d seen you put away enough over the months to know your tolerance better than this guy apparently did; he knew the difference between the nights you were genuinely wrecked and the nights you came in clearer than you let on, and looking at you, tonight, you weren’t anywhere near the state implied. 

“You,” he said, tipping his chin in your direction. “Not him. Where’d it get you?” 

You lifted your hand up from your lap and touched your cheekbone, movement slow, and Jack stepped in and tipped your head up toward the light with two fingers under your chin, thumb resting just shy of the scrape. The skin had gone dark along the bone, tender, an elbow’s worth of it. Nothing that needed more than an ice and a night, but you were still holding still under his hand and not meeting his eyes, and that he didn’t like at all. 

“It’s okay,” you said. “Really. S’not even — ”

“Let me be the judge of that, sweetheart. Gettin’ paid for this.” His eyes flicked down to yours and caught, holding it there a second with a small question in the rise of a brow, before he went back to the bone, thumb tracing the edge of the bruise so light you barely felt it. A small frown pulled at the corners of his mouth at the sight. “Follow my finger. Eyes only.” 

You followed, pupils fine and equal. No concussion in it. 

“She’s fine, I told you,” the guy said from the chair, a little laugh under it like he was inviting Jack in on something. “Hardly. She bounces back.”

Jack clicked the penlight off and turned to the side. “Gonna need the room.”

“I’ll stay.” The hand went back to your knee. “I’m all good here.”

“Can’t clear a head strike with people in the room. You get it.” Jack tilted his head to the side, raising a shoulder. “Liability. Coffee machine’s down the hall. Give me two minutes with my patient.”

The easy smile on the guy’s lips went thin around the edges, looking for a thing to push against and not finding it. He stood up slow, making a show of it, squeezing your knee and letting you know he’ll be back in a minute, babe, a hand trailing your shoulder on the way past, all of it aimed less at you and more at Jack holding the curtain. Jack pressed his lips in a thin line as he met the guy’s eyes. 

The second the curtain closed behind him, a breath left you, tiny and involuntary, and your shoulders came down in the empty room. 

“Sorry, Dr. Abbot,” you murmured. “I keep being a mess at this place.” You took in a short, almost shaky breath. “Sorry.” 

“None of that,” he almost grumbled, penning your chart. “Your folks down here, sweetheart?” 

“No,” you said to your lap, picking the edge of the blanket. “Back home. A few states over.” You let out a laugh. “Just me out here. S’nice.” 

Jack forced a small smile, having to look at the ceiling while you looked down at your lap, shaking his head, more of an action for himself than for you. He pulled the stool over with his foot and sat, getting level with you. 

“What’s goin’ on with you, huh?” he asked quietly, making sure there was nothing sharp in his tone at all. “Honest. I like seeing you but not like this bruised up with a guy who talks for you.” His thumb found your wrist. “So talk to me. What’s going on?” 

“He’s fine,” you said. “Just likes being around.”

Jack tilted his head, dipping his head to meet your eyes that were still facing down. “Not the important part of the question, and you know it.” 

You sighed. “Sorry, Jack.”

“Quit it. The only thing I want from you tonight is some honesty, alright?” 

A corner of your lip kicked up, even though the dimness in your eyes held. “Your eyes look really pretty tonight.” 

“Heard that one before,” he drawled. “Had ‘em fifty years. Try a new one.” 

“Your neck’s going red,” you mumbled, fingers reaching up to press flat to the warm of his skin, right there below the jaw, like you just had to feel whether it was true.

Jack stilled. Your fingers were cold on his neck. He distantly registered his pulse was probably going under your fingertips, and you’d feel it if you held there a second longer. And then you caught yourself, hand snapping back to the blanket.

“Sorry. Sorry — I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have done that — ” you said, the words coming out in a taut string. 

“Easy,” he said, voice coming out rough. He swallowed. “Got me all flustered and now you’re gettin’ all shy?” 

You huffed a small laugh, your hand still fisted in the blanket where you’d snatched it back. “I’m not allowed to do that. I don’t think.” 

“Had no idea you knew how to behave,” he leaned a little back from the stool, crossing his arms. “Should I be worried about that guy out there?”

“Jealous, Doctor?” 

He rolled his eyes slightly, not responding. 

You sighed when you realized he wasn’t taking the bait. “He’s fine. He just likes being around.” 

He stood off the stool and reached for the discharge clipboard at the foot of the bed.

“Whatcha doing there?”

“My job.” He clicked the pen. “Clearing you. You’ve got no concussion. You’re not dying tonight.” He scrawled on the paper. “And I’m writing you a script for the bruise and a code for an Uber — ”

“No, no,” you said immediately. “Please don’t do that.” 

He raised his hand with the pen, palm open. “You never let me Uber you back when you’re alone. At least have this.” Your face scrunched up, and he could practically feel the guilt building in you. “Don’t need to use it now. Or ever. You can keep it for whenever.” He set the slip on your lap before you could push it back at him, the matter completely closed on his end. “Goes in your phone case. You can forget it exists until you need it.”

“You can’t keep handing me stuff — ”

“Department’s got a whole stack. You’re not special.” He capped the pen, though the corner of his mouth made it slightly visible that his words were false. “Don’t flatter yourself, doll.”

You looked down at the slip, your thumb worrying the edges of it. “I don’t like taking things.” 

“I noticed. A few hundred times now.” He tucked the pen back in his scrub pocket, and his voice came down a notch. “If it really makes you feel so bad, though, then maybe we can start taking care of ourselves so you don’t have to keep ending up here?”

Jack was in the middle of hand-off, Robby doing his thing before Robby left and did whatever the hell he did. They were at the board, Robby running down the floor. It was six-fifteen in the ugly hour, the in-between where the day shift was dragging itself toward the door and the night hadn’t started biting yet, the light through the ambulance doors gone gold and slanted and almost decent for once.

And then the doors slid, and you came through them. Jack’s attention peeled to you the second your shape entered the room, except this was wrong, he distantly registered. It was daylight and six in the evening and you were on your own two feet, upright and, assumedly, sober and walking in through the front like a person as opposed to a patient. You were wearing a jacket that swallowed you, and he assumed underneath it was shorts of some sort. He could see a stripe of navy cotton peeking from under the collar of your jacket as you adjusted a tote bag on your shoulder. 

You looked, frankly, like a completely different species from the one he scraped off bed four on weekends. The jacket was too big — his first thought was that it was a man’s, and his second thought, which he didn’t care for, was about whose — sleeves shoved up to your forearms, a stripe of soft navy cotton on the collar, and below it bare legs and shorts and sneakers that had likely never seen the inside of a club. Your hair was up and a little damp at the temple and your face was scrubbed clean.

You looked like somebody’s whole good day, he thought. You looked around around the waiting room with slightly widened eyes, a lost expression coating your features like you’d built up a lot of nerve to walk in here and had no idea what to do with it. 

“ — and the tox screen is still pending, so don’t let them,” Robby was saying. 

“Mhm,” Jack said, attention already halved. 

And Bennet, breezing past the triage desk with cheerful obliviousness, caught your figure and said, out loud, “Don’t tell me you’ve started day drinking. It’s barely past six, you gotta pace yourself — ” He let out a small laugh at his own joke, and kept walking, and didn’t see the way it landed. 

Your body stiffened, and you looked like a deer in headlights. Your mouth opened, some sort of flustered apology forming, he was sure. 

Jack let out a short groan, shaking his head. He set the tablet on the counter, already moving to cross the floor toward you. “Finish the hand-off with Shen. I gotta go deal with something.” 

Robby said something at his back — deal with what? — but Jack was already gone, crossing the floor slowly but somehow still eating the distance fast, and he watched you spot him coming and watched the relief crash over your face. Except you were sober now, in the daylight, and your whole face was going soft and grateful and just slightly wrecked at the sight of him.

He stopped a couple feet short of you, closer than a doctor, further than he stood to you at night. He wasn’t sure what to do with his hands — there was no chart to hold (he should’ve brought the tablet) or wrist to take or a penlight to shine — so he clasped them behind his back, and tilted his head to get a better look at you. 

“Hi,” you breathed.

“Hey,” he said, eyes doing a quick once-over to make sure you really didn’t have any new injuries.

You shifted the tote under his gaze and clutched whatever was in the bag a little tighter.

“Jack —” you started, stopped, like the name had come out wrong. “ — Dr. Abbot.” You winced, pinching your eyes shut for a second. “Jack?” you tried to say again, smaller, your eyes flicking up to check his face to check if you’d overstepped. “Sorry, I don’t know which — ”

“Jack’s great.” His mouth tugged up, despite himself. “You’ve called me a lot worse. Jack’s a step-up.” 

You let out a startled little laugh, your mouth coming over your mouth like you could catch it, as your body eased a degree. 

“I’m sorry — I don’t — God, this is so embarrassing. I’m sorry.” 

“You know how many times you’ve apologized to me? Quit it.” He rubbed a finger over his lips. “What’s got you here today, then?”

“Um, I came to see you.” He raised a brow, and you let out a short breath, then continued, “I might not remember a lot of it, but I remember you took really good care of me. And my friends who came in with me sometimes said you took really good care of me.” The words came out softer now, flowing, more earnest. “Even though I was a mess. Especially when. So I just wanted to —” You shrugged, smiling slightly. “ — come say thanks.”

Jack felt the complete warmth of you land somewhere he kept no armor. “It’s the job,” he said quickly, before he could stop himself. “You didn’t have to come down here for that. That’s — it’s what we do. Anybody on shift would’ve done the same.” 

Your expression faltered for a moment, and your eyes dropped to the tote at your side as your shoulders came in. You shook your head, a small motion, then smiled again. 

“Right. No — yeah, of course.” You chuckled. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to make it a — I know it’s your job.” You shifted the bag, then shifted your weight from one foot to another. “Still, though. You did, so I wanted to.” 

Jack already wanted to take his words back, but he couldn’t, so he just shook his head. “Hey, you’re my problem, though. So thank you. For the thanks. We’re even.” 

Your shoulders eased and you nodded. “Well, I also have something for you.” You hauled a container out of your tote and held it out to him with both hands before you could chicken out. “It definitely doesn’t make up for all of the times you helped me.” You looked down at the container. “And I don’t know if you’re lactose intolerant, or have a peanut allergy or anything. I’m sorry if you do — I can — ”

“I’ve got a cast-iron everything. The cookies won’t kill me.” When you pushed the container further to him, he took it off your hands, eyes quickly scanning the round chocolate chip cookies, forcing a smile down. He swallowed whatever had lodged in his throat. 

“These are homemade?” He weighed the container in both hands, absurdly. You nodded. He swallowed whatever on earth had lodged in his throat at that.“Didn’t have to do all that for me.” 

“I wanted to,” you said quickly. “I wasn’t sure how the food here is, so thought it might be a nice change.” 

“Worse than you’re imagining,” he said, then tipped his head to the side as the memory crawled into his brain, uncalled for. “You’ve actually thrown a sandwich across the room.” 

Your palm came up to your mouth, and you let out a muffled, “I’m so sorry.” 

Jack snorted, shaking his head. Then, after a moment, he cleared his throat before it could get away from him. He looked back toward the board, then at you, knowing time was slipping and he’d have to go back to work and you’d have to go somewhere else, most likely. 

“You got finals or anything coming up soon?” he asked. 

Your lips curved down, and you nodded. “Yeah, in a couple weeks.” 

“Am I gonna be seeing you getting wheeled in wasted?” 

“I want to say no,” you said, smiling a little crooked. “I’m working on it. But I’ve said that before and ended up here. So.” You shrugged, lips jutting out like you were also unimpressed with yourself. “Ask me again in a couple weeks, I guess. I’d like it if you didn’t, though.” 

“Then quit doing the hard nights alone,” he said, leaning in just slightly. “You keep yourself off the stairs, and you can come bother us instead here with a textbook.” He raised a brow as he held your eyes. “We’ve got a family room that’s almost always empty at night.” 

“I couldn’t — ”

“Won’t be a bother. Trust me. You’d be silly not to use people’s help when they’ve clawed through the same exams to get the badge. You get stuck, somebody’ll know it cold.” He shrugged. “Half of ‘em are bored out of their minds some nights. You’d be doing us a favor.” 

You let out a breath, brows pinching together. “That’s — yeah.” You let out a short laugh, looking away for a second. “I’d like that. A lot. Thank you, really. As long as you don’t mind.”

“This is a teaching hospital, doll. I don’t mind, so long as you don’t mind the company. Might be nice for me, too.”

You smiled and for a moment, neither of you moved to end it. Then you shifted the tote back up your shoulder, and Jack felt the pull to keep you here one more second before he could stop himself. 

“Go home,” he said gruffly. “And I’ll be looking for you. So actually turn up, don’t make me look for nothing.” 

The whole sun of you came up at that, stunned, like you hadn’t expected to be looked for by anyone. Jack felt the ground go quietly out from under him, the vertigo of having reached for a person’s happiness on purpose and connected, of being, for once, the cause of a face doing that. He’d gotten so used to delivering news that took the light out that he’d forgotten it ran the other way, too.

“I’ll turn up. I promise.” 

He nodded, clearing his throat and turning for the board, bidding you a throaty goodbye. 

“She’s the girl that everyone on night talks about?” Robby asked immediately, falling into step beside him. 

Jack looked at him sideways, shaking his head. “You got something to say, too?”

“No,” Robby said, rubbing his palm at his chin like he was holding something in. “You like her or something?”

Jack halted for a second, pointing his index at Robby as he lowered his chin. “You shut up. She’s gonna be a nurse.” 

“Oh, yeah,” Robby laughed. “Looks like she’s gonna be your nurse, old man. You’ll need it soon enough.”

Thank god you did turn up. Jack had the sense that maybe he’d scared you off altogether by his offer, and the line he’d toed had two very alternate spectrums: you’d find a new hospital altogether to go to in the metropolitan area after your falls or poisonings, or you’d be here a lot more often, which he still wasn’t sure would’ve been often enough. 

The first time you came in, it was well past midnight and Jack had unfortunately not been able to catch you off the bat because he was in an emergency surgery. He’d walked out of it with his blood-stained surgical gown still on to be met with the sight of you by the nurse’s station, writing something down on the back of a discharge form for Lena, with another Tupperware laying on the table. He made the guess that you’d brought the whole floor something and were three minutes from having Lena eating out of your hand. 

You’d found a corner of his department and made yourself a small soft home in it inside of ten minutes, and you were leaning in, and Jack stood there for a moment with the bad night still ringing in his ears and felt something unclench in his chest by a fraction.

“ — no, but you gotta,” you were saying to Lena in earnest as Jack approached closer. “If you put the brown sugar in while the butter’s still hot, it’s just — it’s a different cookie.”

“You taking the recipe, Lena?” Jack asked then, fully submerging into the knot you’d made with his charge nurse. 

You turned to face him, a smile forming on your lips almost immediately, and then your eyes dropped over him, to the gown, the rust-brown stain dried dark across the front of it, the set of his shoulders. 

“I am,” Lena replied. “Gonna make these for the kids.” She punctuated her sentence by holding up one of the cookies. 

“Gonna make some for us, too, then?” Jack asked, raising a brow, and settled his elbows over the table. He turned his neck to face you properly, putting on his best smile.

Lena laughed shortly. “I don’t like you enough.” She pushed off the counter with some forms in hand. “Her, maybe. You can have whatever she leaves behind.” She shot you a look that was almost warm before she went and disappeared down the hall. 

“Could be you someday,” Jack said, tilting his head in the direction of Lena’s chair. 

You shook your head, then pushed the container in his hands. “I’ve got to graduate first. And pass pharm, which is currently — ” You patted your tote bag, textbooks heavy. “ — trying to kill me.”

Jack nodded toward the family room, placing the container on the table for a second beside him. “C’mon, then, doll. Let’s see what the pharm’s doing to you.”

“You don’t have to — ” Your eyes flicked down the gown again. “You just came out of surgery. You don’t have to help me study.”

“Actin’ like I’m the one who got the surgery,” Jack muttered, chuckling slightly. He was already peeling off the gown one-handed, balling it up to toss. He started walking, and you followed behind him. “C’mon. It’s pretty empty right now.” 

It’d been pleasant that night and the few after to have five to ten minute increments of sitting with you helping you study in between doing his actual job. He’d duck in between things — a lull after discharge, the dread stretch while he waited for a CT scan, the ten minutes a trauma took to roll in once the call came — and you’d be there in the family room with your stack of cards on the couch. He’d drop on the chair across you or the couch beside you and pick up wherever you’d left off like he hadn’t left at all. Then his pager would buzz and he’d be gone, and you’d still be there an hour later when he came back, and he’d sit back down, and both of you’d pretend this was a completely normal way to study.

It’d annoyed him the first night how badly the flashcards were failing you; he’d seen you stare at the words and your eyes would glaze and slide right off it like they were greased. You’d memorized or retained nothing. And then he’d said, half to himself, a story for the why to click, and he’d watched it lock in you. 

So he’d stopped quizzing you primarily off the cards and started telling you stories instead and you’d talk it back to him, reasoning out loud, getting there in the saying of it the way you never got there on the page. 

The nights stacked up. The first week, you’d sat at a table across from him. By the second, you’d migrated to the chair beside him. Your coffee, the one by the far end of the table, was right by his elbow. Lena started leaving a second cup at the station when she saw you come in, his and yours, and never commented.

You’d stopped apologizing for taking up his time somewhere in there. He noticed when you’d started saving him the worst looking cookie on purpose because he’d once told you he liked the ugly ones. He’d noticed when you learned the rhythm of his pages; you’d go quiet and just hand him the next card when his eyes drifted to the board through the window of the door, would have it ready when he came back, like you’d kept his place for him while he was off keeping someone alive. 

He noticed that he more than looked forward to it. Somewhere in the dead middle of a bad shift, his feet would take him toward the family room before his brain could catch up on the why of it all. An empty table on a night you didn’t come in sat wrong with him, a tiny disappointment he didn’t have anything in him to figure out why.

Sometimes, like now, you’d get distracted. Jack had learned. He’d walked into the family room to see you and Ellis folded into opposite ends of the couch, the flashcards abandoned in a fanned mess on the cushion between you, both of you mid-argument and enjoying yourselves too much.

“Poaching my study hall, Ellis?” he said, finally moving in. 

Ellis pointed one stern finger in your direction as she pulled herself off the couch. “Do the crossword, not the sudoku.” 

“She’s gonna make you a worse student,” Jack said to Ellis’s back.

“She’s making me a worse doctor,” Ellis said cheerfully, already at the door. “I’ve been here twenty minutes. I have patients.” She turned to you one final time. “Crossword. You’ll thank me later.” 

She gave Jack a knowing look on her way out, one he didn’t want to read too much into, and she was gone, the door swinging shut behind her in one slow plunge. 

You watched the door settle, and the entire wattage of your attention turned to him. He hadn’t gotten used to that, and he didn’t think he ever would. “Looks like I’ll never be a nurse.” 

“Don’t say things like that.” He came around and lowered himself onto the couch beside you. “What’re you stuck on? Hit me.”

Your palm met his upper arm, a small smack. 

He narrowed his eyes at you. “Hit me all you want. You’re not getting out of this.” 

“But Jaaaack,” you drawled, tipping your head back on the couch. “Not here to study today.”

His eyes flickered over to your form briefly as he gathered the cards and squared them. “Oh, no? What’re you here for then?”

“Dunno.” You pulled your knees up to the couch. “Didn’t wanna be at mine. And work was a lot and boring.” You turned to face him then, a small smile growing on your lips. “Thought I’d bother yours instead.” 

He set the squared deck on his knee. “Lucky me.”

He’d caught it, though, how you’d folded the sad thing in the middle of the sentence where it’d draw the least attention and moved on before it could sit. He let it move on, but he kept it. The image of you on a Tuesday, work behind you, and the choice you’d made was to drive to a hospital rather than go home to your own quiet. He was getting a picture of what that quiet looked like and learned that he didn’t like it very much.

“Work was boring, huh,” he said, though he couldn’t imagine what a fun day looked like as a waitress. “You working more?”

“Mm. Saturday girl quit, so now I’m on Saturdays, too.” You picked at your sock. “S’okay. Tips are good. I learned that old guys tip better when you call them ‘sir.’” 

He huffed. “Do they?”

“Huge. It’s a cheat code.” You tilted your head at him, smiling shyly. “You’d tip well, I think. You’d overcompensate.” 

“I’m not gonna sit here and get profiled by you in the only few minutes where I can catch my breath.” He held the card up, front to himself. “And I tip twenty-five percent like every functioning adult, thank you.”

You groaned. “Where can I get tipped more than that?” 

“You don’t want me to answer that.”

“I do. I do. I’m a broke student. Point me to the money — where should I apply?” You shifted on the couch, fully facing him now, the cards apparently abandoned for the moment. “C’mon. You’ve lived a hundred years. You’ve gotta know where I can make some quick cash.” 

“You’re sweet to me, doll,” he muttered, rolling his eyes. He set the cards down and looked at you, genuinely considering it now. He tried to ignore the fact that you likely had money troubles and tried to think about how he could actually help. “Define quick.” 

“Like — by next Thursday.” 

“Legally?”

“No.” 

“Legally, you can sell plasma. Twice a week, they pay you, you sit there with a juice box.” 

Your nose scrunched. “I don’t love needles in me sober.”

“You’re gonna be a nurse.”

“In other people. That’s totally different.” You waved it off. “Next. What else?”

“Sleep studies pay you to sleep. Egg donation pays a whole lot but it’s a whole process, not a Thursday deal.” He was ticking them off on his fingers, now fully committed. “Medical research’ll pay you to test things. Phase-one trials. You take an experimental drug and they watch you for side effects.”

“That’s the one.” You sat up. “How much?”

“No,” he said immediately, shaking his head. “Absolutely not. I bring you in here to keep you from blacking out. I’m not gonna have you volunteering to get poisoned for a quick four hundred bucks.” He pointed at you. “Maybe start laying on the ‘sir’ a little too thick from now on.” 

“Sir.” You tested on him directly, dropping your voice, leaning in an inch, lashes going slow. “Could you help me out, sir? Tips have been so slow, sir.” 

He turned his face away from you, now making himself look out the window. “I’m not entertaining this.” 

“Oh, but sir.” You’d fully abandoned the cards now, scooting closer, a hand under your chin, the picture of innocence. “I’m just a girl. A poor, hardworking girl trying to be a nurse. Don’t you want to help me out, sir?”

“I am trying.” He pulled up the flashcards. “If it’ll help, I’ll bring my SWAT buddies into your place and they can run up a tab.” He waved a card in front of your face, trying to get your attention back to it. “You do this, I’ll have eight cops eating mozzarella sticks in your section by Friday, overtipping ‘cause I saved their lives. Won’t even have to call ‘em sir.” 

“Right. No, that’s — ” You let out a little laugh too quickly, eyes widening at his words, and you took the card out of his hand mostly to have something to do with yours. “You don’t have to do that. Obviously. I was kidding — ” You batted the whole thing away with a shake of your head. “God. No. I’m okay, I promise. I was kidding.”

“I’m half-kidding,” he said, raising a brow. “I do know those guys. It’s no skin off me. But it’s okay.” 

He let the offer sit like that, and he saw you pinch your eyes shut. He watched the whole thing happen on your face, the small involuntary recoil you always had when anyone offered you real kindness. You were bad at it. For a girl who lied so charmingly about how much she drank and how her night went, you had absolutely no poker face for being cared about. You had not the first idea how to hide it.

He found it unbearably endearing.

You opened your eyes and looked a little caught, a little sheepish as your thumb worried the corner of the card.

“You’re a strange girl,” he mumbled, fond, before he could stop it. “You know that?”

“Shit — Jack,” you said through a small laugh, shaking your head. “I don’t — I’m — ” You pressed your lips together and your shoulders came up almost to your ears in a stiff shrug. “Is there anything I can do for you? I can’t just accept — all your help.” 

He snorted. “What help? I give you a study room and review flash cards.”

“Let me do something. I’m a good cleaner — ”

His head went back slightly, shaking his head. “You’re really not.”

“Okay,” you continued, rallying. “A dog? Guys like you always have dogs they don’t walk ‘cause of their hours. I can walk dogs.” 

“No dog.” He raised his hand when he saw your mouth move again, stopping you. “You pay me back by passing your boards. You can pay me back plenty if you end up working here, doing good at the job.”

You went quiet for a second. “That’s just me doing my own thing. That’s not real.”

“That’s real to me.” He shrugged, like he hadn’t just made your whole future the price of his kindness. “I get a good nurse out of it someday.” He pulled himself off the couch. “And now I gotta go. Floor’s not gonna run itself.”

“Boo,” you said, pulling the entire deck on your lap now. “You’re the worst study partner. You leave constantly.”

Tonight, Jack had come into the family room after leaving you for a longer stretch of time than usual — a multi-vehicle situation that had eaten two hours and most of his patience — and found the studying had long since lost.

You’d migrated to the couch at some point. The textbook was open face-down on the cushion beside you like a small tented roof, your flashcards fanned across the middle seat, and you were folded in the corner with your knees pulled up and cheek mashed into the worn armrest, fighting your eyes and losing completely. You’d dimmed the overhead lights, lighting the lamp in the corner, the one nobody used, throwing everything low and gold.

He paused in the doorway. “You awake?” 

“Mhm. Need a cat nap, though,” you murmured.

Jack snorted, shutting the door behind him as he walked closer to you. “How far’d you get?”

“Far enough.” Then, you added, “Cat nap.”

“Sayin’ it like I’m gonna not let you have one.” 

Your eye cracked open a sliver, tracked him, then fell shut again. “Feel like you’re gonna make me do more cards.”

He toed the leg of the coffee table aside, reached down, and started clearing your mess off the cushions. He lifted the textbook and shut it around the receipt you’d jammed as a bookmark; gathered the flashcards and squared them in his palm; capped the highlighter and pocketed it. You watched the cleanup through one half-open eye, not lifting a single finger, your cheek staying flat to the armrest. 

“There. No more cards. You’re done for tonight, doll.” 

“Hooray,” you mumbled. 

He nudged your socked foot where it had crept up across the cushion. “C’mon. Budge up a second. Don’t want you wrecking your neck sleeping like that.”

You made a small sound of protest but you went, peeling your cheek off the armrest with reluctance. There was a crease pressed into your skin where the fabric seam had been and your hair was flat on one side and mushed on the other. You blinked up at him, swaying where you sat, eyes glassy and unfocused in the gold lamplight.

He sank into the space he’d cleared, the cushion dipping, tipping the two of you a fraction into each other. That was all the invitation your body apparently needed, because you folded into him without a beat of thought — too tired to second-guess it, he supposed — your temple finding the warm of his shoulder, your whole side melting against his. You drew your knees up and tucked them against his thigh. Your hand came to rest on his chest, palm flat, fingers spreading once before they went still. You exhaled after a moment, long and slowly, and burrowed your nose into his neck. 

Jack stilled. 

“Ten minutes,” you murmured, the words barely coming out as words.

He took his arm off the back of the couch and settled it around your back, broad hand spanning between your shoulder blades and drawing you that last fraction deeper into him. You went boneless with it, a small contended hum slipping out of you. 

Because he couldn’t help himself, he tipped his head down a fraction to say into your hair, “Been doin’ really well, y’know that, sweetheart?” 

You hummed, the sound of it vibrating against his throat, your fingers curling the faintest bit in his scrubs. “Thanks, Jack.”

“Gonna be a good nurse,” he murmured, thumb moving once along your shoulder. 

“Gonna work with you,” you mumbled, three-quarters gone. “You said.”

“Mhm.”

“Holdin’ you to it.” 

“Yeah, I know you are.” The corner of his mouth flicked up where you couldn’t see it. “Go to sleep. You can hold me to it in ten minutes.” 

When you didn’t answer for a second, Jack realized you were already gone. You were warm and trusting at his side, your hand slack over his heart, your breath sinking deep and even into his neck. 

Jack let his head tip back against the couch, pinching his eyes shut at the feeling of you, at the feeling you caused. His hand spread slowly across your back, feeling the breath go through you — the proof of you — and he let his thumb find the curve of your shoulder and rest there, keeping his eyes shut. He sat with the enormous fact of you, the girl he’d not seen anyone circle back for, gone soft and so pliant in his arms like she’d always belonged there, and he stopped pretending he wasn’t already lost. 

The ten minutes came and went. He let them. He’d have given you the whole night, the whole shift, the whole of whatever this was turning into. There wasn’t one place on the earth worth standing up for, and he’d known it for weeks, and only now, with your breath slow against his throat, did he let himself sit all the way inside of the knowing.

Jack came out of the OR and signed — albeit distantly, mind running a meter a minute about nothing good — what needed signing and said the things he was meant to, feeling the familiar piece of his own damn soul rotting away in the place those things went to rot. He knew the spot by now. It’d been decades of depositing them into the same place, and the place didn’t fill, exactly, but it never emptied, either. It just sat there, getting heavier, like things usually do when you keep adding to it and never take anything out.

This one would sit a while. Jack had started to sense it around the first year in this job; the ones that stayed had a weight, and you knew on the table whether you were getting one of those or whether it’d wash off by morning. This one wouldn’t.

He stripped his gloves, and somebody said something he answered without hearing, and then his feet simply walked past the board, carrying him down the hall toward the one door on the whole floor that wouldn’t have somebody else’s catastrophe behind it. 

His hand was flat on the door. He was still wearing the gown, and he looked down and registered it too late. He should’ve changed it, left the thing in the dirty bin with the rest of what the shift had taken, the way he always did before he came to you, kept the two halves of the floor separate on purpose. 

He opened the door. You were on the couch, one leg tucked under you and the other foot on the floor and a half-empty cup of coffee on the table going cold. You’d been doing something on your phone, or nothing, when the door opened, and you looked up with the easy expectant expression on your face you always had before it dropped. He watched it melt.

“Hey,” you said, making your voice soft.

“Hey.” His voice came out rough, and he almost winced as he heard it himself. 

You set your phone face-down on the cushion and unfolded yourself from the couch and stood, crossing the room to close the gap between you. You stopped in front of him and looked up, your brow doing a small worried thing, and he let himself be looked at.

“Sit down,” you said. “You look like you’re gonna fall through the floor.”

He distantly registered you walking him to the chair — your hand finding his forearm, a light touch — and he let you. He folded into the chair like the strings of his own body had been cut, his elbows finding his knees and head dropping.

He heard you move, small domestic sounds of you filling a cup, the tap somewhere down the hall turning on then shutting off. Then your socks were back in his eyeline, toes pointed to him.

“Here.” You crouched, came into his lowered field of vision, and pressed a cup into his hands — water, cold — and folded his fingers around it when they were slow to close. “Drink it all.”

He drank because that was the path of least resistance. The water caught something he hadn’t registered was bone-dry. You took the empty cup out of his hands when he was done, setting it on the table behind you, and then he felt your hands find his shoulders.

He flinched just slightly, the smallest involuntary thing, for nobody touched him like that. Nobody put their hands on him that weren’t shaking one of his or needing something from him. You settled your thumbs into the iron base of his neck and pressed slowly, working the knots the night, the days, the weeks, and probably the year had wound there.

Your thumbs were unsure of themselves — you weren’t good at it, you weren’t trying to be, you were simply trying — and that was somehow worse because it got further to him than skill would have; there was the unpracticed earnestness to it, like you’d simply decided his shoulders had been holding too much and you wanted to put your hands there to take some of it down. 

He felt his head drop lower, coming forward on its own, the tension bleeding out of his neck by degrees under your hands. Your thumbs found a place at the top of his spine that had been clenched so long that it had stopped registering as pain, and you pressed there, and a fraction let go. He felt his shoulders drop the inch they’d been holding up all night, and an uneven breath went out of him.

You kept your hands moving, your thumbs working the meat of his shoulders through the cotton, occasionally finding a knot and leaning your weight into it until it gave. 

His head tipped a little forward after a stretch of time — chasing, or simply falling — and it found the soft of your stomach. His forehead rested against the front of you, where you stood close in the gap between his knees. He hadn’t intended for it, or maybe he had, somewhere under where the intention happened, his body had chosen to stop holding its own weight and give it to the nearest thing that felt like it’d take it. His eyes were already shut, and he stayed there, hands coming up on their own to rest at the sides of your waist. His fingers anchored into the fabric of your shirt.

“Shitty job sometimes,” he mumbled after a moment.

“Yeah,” you said softly above him. “I bet it is.” 

Your fingers had found his hair, threading through the curls. Then, you added quietly, “But you’re really good at it.” 

His fingers tightened a fraction at the fabric on your waist as he let out a short huff. 

“Didn’t help him,” he said finally, the words coming out muffled behind his own mouth. “Whatever I’m good at didn’t help him.” 

“Maybe not.” Your fingers scraped carefully at his scalp. “I think you were the best shot he had.”

He breathed you in, choosing to let the words rest in his skull for a while instead of fighting them. 

“I’m — ” He heard you take in a breath and felt it go through your whole body. “I’m really grateful I met you, Jack.”

For some reason, he waited for you to take it back. There was a primally fast thing in him that told him that you’d take the words back, and he’d have understood.

“You don’t have to say anything,” you added. “I just wanted you to know. While you’re here being all — ” Your thumb moved at the back of his neck, tender and so gentle. “ — Figured it was a decent time to tell you I’m glad you exist.” 

He took in a shaky breath against you, fingers tightening again. 

“Thank you, sweet girl,” he said, and it sounded like it’d been punched out of him. “Likewise. More than you know,” he finished, his arms wrapping around the rest of your waist now, pulling you in like he could just fold himself smaller if he held hard enough.

Your fingers kept moving slowly in his hair, your other hand coming around the back of his head to hold him there. He couldn’t think of the last time he’d let anybody do this; as far as he could remember, he’d decided in some wordless permanent way that he’d carry his own weight from then on, that it was cheaper, that needing somebody was a bill that came due eventually and he’d rather not run the tab. 

“You should sit,” he said after god knows how long without letting go. “Selfish, keepin’ you standing here.”

“It’s okay.”

He hummed, thumb moving once at your waist. “Two more minutes then.”

“Whatever you need, Jack,” you said, voice quiet. “I’m not going.”

Jack’s phone lit up on the arm of the couch at 10:52, face-down, buzzing itself a quarter-inch off the leather before he caught it. 

He’d been working his way, with grim completionist patience, through an iceberg video you’d sent him three days ago with the message ‘THIS rabbit hole i need you to fall down.’ You’d followed it up by telling him, ‘do Not skip tiers!!’ He hadn’t skipped tiers. He was, in fact, ninety minutes deep and only about two-thirds down the pyramid, somewhere in the tier where a young man with a serious voice was explaining internet folklore he couldn’t believe was real. 

He was fairly sure it’d been invented by some teenager, but Jack only shrugged, distantly wondering why on earth anyone would spend the labor — the diagrams, alone — hoaxing a thing this elaborate for an audience of complete strangers. He also wondered why on earth you were so interested in this. As quickly as the thought arrived, he realized that he was working down the iceberg himself.

Working down a thing you’d handed him felt adjacent to sitting next to you, and his apartment had become the sort of quiet that made adjacent worth ninety minutes of contemporary folklore. He’d sooner have chewed glass than admitted it out loud.

It was a good apartment and an unwitnessed one. He’d realized somewhere in the past year it was untouched by any hand but his. Every object was exactly where he’d last set it down, for there was no second person to nudge the remote three inches or leave a hair tie on the counter or ask why there was a mug in the sink and no bowl. His leg was off for the night, propped against the arm of the couch, the whole standing weight from his night shift to SWAT calls finally set down somewhere it was allowed to stay.

So, the phone going off, went off loud in the silence that had become almost-permanent. Your name lit across the screen, and the picture with it (one you’d set yourself, commandeering his phone to do it). It was already strange that it was a call. You never called; you texted in floods, six messages deep before he’d gotten to the first, but the ringing meant the thing had gotten past the point where typing it out would hold. 

He looked at your laughing face buzzing on his phone for a second too long, the cold little instinct, and thumbed it green.

“Hey,” he said. “You know it’s almost eleven on my night-off. This better be good.”

You stayed silent for a second, and he could hear your breath and the hollow of a call connected in a car, the cooling engine’s tick and automotive acoustics. 

“Hey,” you said finally, and Jack felt it wrongly. The back half of the word had gone soft and unsteady at the end.

Jack was already sitting up. “Hey, yourself,” he said. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing.” He heard you swallow quickly. “Sorry. God, this is so dumb. You — were you asleep?” 

“I was almost through with your iceberg, if you want the truth.” 

You made a sound that tried to be a laugh but didn’t clear the runway, breaking apart halfway. “You watched it?”

“Almost.” His fingers were drumming against his prosthetic leaning by the couch now. “Are you out?”

“I’m —” You paused, then hummed like you were debating. “I’m kind of near your place, actually?” Your voice rose toward the end, like you were embarrassed or questioning it all yourself. “I know. It’s creepy. But I think I need to — talk to you.” 

“Yeah?” He tried to keep his voice light, though he could already feel something in his body start racing, panicking. “You break something?”

“No. No. Promise. It’s nothing like that.”

For some reason, that put a deeper hook in him. If it wasn’t a wrist, an ankle, or your body doing something it shouldn’t, then it was the other kind, and he had no idea how to hold something like that. He wasn’t sure what he could do with a sprain he couldn’t ice.

“Okay — ”

“Wait,” you interrupted, voice pitching higher, and he could see you were psyching yourself out. “I could just say it now, honestly. It’d probably be easier over the phone.”

Jack’s eyes widened a fraction at that. His stomach suddenly felt cold. 

“No,” he said, voice rougher than he’d intended. “I won’t make it hard. Whatever you want to say, I promise. Just — not like this, okay? Come here.” 

He listened to you breathe as you weighed it and knew, with bone-deep certainty, that he wouldn’t like what you were going to say. “Okay,” you breathed. “I’ll be there in fifteen.” 

Jack opened the door after the first knock, unembarrassed of waiting. You’d come as you were, a coat thrown open over sleep clothes, good wool hanging loose over a thin cami with lace at the collar and soft shorts and bare legs down to the sneakers you hadn’t laced properly. The second fact that registered to Jack was that you’d been crying; there was a soft ruin around your eyes, the mascara long gone, wiped with a sleeve somewhere back in the evening. Your hair was up and losing, a claw clip hanging looser than he believed it was meant to.

“Hi,” you said, eyes raising to meet his. “Thanks for letting me come by.”

Jack felt his shoulders rise to his ears just slightly at the formality. He felt like a bucket of ice had been dropped upon him because somewhere in the past few weeks, you’d stopped apologizing to him as much, which had felt like a small victory he never told you he was counting. And here it was again, your stiff little courtesy, the door swung back shut on a thing that had been open. Jack didn’t like it. He didn’t like it at all. 

“You don’t thank me for coming by,” he said gruffly, opening the door wider.

You came in, but only just. Before he could steer you to the warmth of his apartment, you were already reaching into the bag on your shoulder — hands shaking, he realized, with a fine tremor — and pulling out a folded piece of paper, creased hard down the middle and then again like you’d tried to bundle it up into a fist.

He unfolded it and smoothed out the edges, eyes looking for yours briefly, but you’d already looked away. Your bottom lip was between your teeth and you were looking at the ground. He forced himself to look down.

It was your pharmacology exam. Your cramped looping handwriting scattered the margins, a star drawn to one question because you starred everything. There was red pen all down the side and a number circled on the top. The number, Jack saw immediately, was not catastrophic, not a failure even. It was a low pass, the sort of grade that would’ve stung for Jack in his school days and evaporated by the next exam. He’d expected worse from the way you’d been shaking holding it. 

He looked back at you, confused more than anything. “Congratulations, you passed.” 

Your jaw tightened, and he could see your eyes go bright and wounded. “It’s a seventy-one.”

“That’s a pass.”

“Barely. Barely.” You took the paper out of his hands, folding it away like you couldn’t stand looking at it anymore. “And you helped me with this so much and I still couldn’t. I’m so tired of — ” You stopped, looking up at the ceiling as you pressed your lips flat. “It’s not about the test.”

“Okay.” He leaned back against the counter, giving you the whole floor of the room. “Talk, then.” 

You looked at him, and he watched you gather it all up, deciding, as it settled into your face, your mouth, whatever you’d come here to say.

“I don’t wanna waste your time anymore,” you said, tugging your bottom lip between your teeth as your eyes landed on the wall behind him. “I can’t — it’s not fair.” 

Jack felt the whole floor shift under him and felt his brows go up an inch as he tried to keep his face seem collected. 

“You’re you,” you continued. “You’ve got a whole life, a hard one, and I’ve been just — dumping mine on you. Making you sit there and hold my hand through studying and I’m — ” You shook your head, face going grim as you said the words. “It’s not fair to you. You’ve been carrying me for so long, and it’s not fair. None of this is yours to carry. I’m not yours to carry.” 

His nose scrunched just slightly, something like burning blooming at the center of his face. Something in his chest had cracked along the seam he had no idea was there, because he’d never had to look at it once straight on. It was easy to carry your own weight when there was no one asking to take some. It was easy to call solitude a principle when nobody had ever made the alternative real. And you had. You’d made it real for months, and here you were proposing — no, telling — to take it back, to hand him his loneliness again because of some measurement of fairness. 

The horror of how much Jack didn’t want it — how badly, how completely he didn’t want to go back to how it was before you — was the first honest look he’d taken at himself in longer than he could stand to count. 

“That so?” was all he could say, voice roughening as his brows narrowed at you. 

“Yes.” You mistook the roughness for agreement, or maybe you just needed to do so, because you kept going. “You don’t have to help me. The only thing I can think is you’re — you are a good person and I was there. And you help people, it’s what you do.” Your hand waved in the general direction of him as your voice cracked. “So help someone who’d actually make it worth it. Who won’t barely pass and keep getting too drunk and — ” You laughed slightly, and it was all wet and terrible, the sound. “I’m a bad use of you. You’re this — you are so much, Jack, and I’m a bad place to put it. So put it somewhere better.” 

Jack had to force a swallow when you ended your words with a sharp intake of breath, the pool behind your eyes slipping free slowly down your cheeks. You’d run out of anything that’d make you wipe it away now, and that undid him worse than the crying itself, that you were standing there and letting it fall, done hiding, wrung all the way out. 

“I’m sorry — ” he started.

“It’s okay,” you said immediately, shaking your head.

“For making you think that’s what it was,” he said, lowering his voice. “That’s on me, that you talked yourself into thinking this has been some sort of charity.” He cocked his head to the side then, wishing you’d look up at him. “But you’re gonna quit shaking your head for one minute, and hear the rest, ‘cause you got it wrong. All of it, backwards and upside down.”

He came off the counter and closed the space himself, until you had to lift your chin to keep his eyes. 

“I’m not a man who spends his nights on a stray out of the goodness of his heart. Ask anyone I work with what I’m like. I don’t have that lying around spare.” His jaw tightened. “So take the halo off. That’s not what this was.”

“Then why — ”

“You,” he said plainly, for he learned it cost him nothing to do so, and a lot if he didn’t. “I wouldn’t do this for just anyone. There’s nowhere else I want to put it.”

He watched everything in your face tighten at his words, the disbelief and reflex to argue all curdling underneath. 

“If you don’t want this.” Me. Me, he wanted to say. “Say it. I’ll leave you alone. You don’t owe me anything.”

“That’s not — ”

“But don’t act like it’s some favor for me.” He was closer now than he’d been. “Don’t tell me you’re leaving for my sake. That’s a lie.”

“It’s not — ”

“It’s a lie,” he said, voice going flat and so final, as he slowly nodded his head. He looked at you a second, lips coming between his teeth, then looked away as he felt something physical seize over his entire body.

Jack himself had to process the words as he said them, because he was only just realizing how much truth they held.

“You make it good.”

He forced himself to look back at you, and you had tilted your head now to look up at him, caught and still as stone, the arguing gone completely off your face now and replaced with something more frightened.

“Don’t — ” One of Jack’s shoulders came up in a half-hearted shrug. “You’re the one part of my day that doesn’t take anything out of me. Just — get that straight, sweetheart.” 

You were just looking up at him with your whole face undone, the tears gone still on it, as though his words had knocked your own clean out of you.

“I don’t know what to do with that,” you said quietly. “People don’t — that’s not a thing that happens to me, Jack. Being — ” Your sentence broke apart and your hand had come up and fisted loosely in front of his shirt without either of you deciding it should, holding on, holding him there. “I don’t know what to do with it.”

“Nothing.” His hand came up slowly and covered yours where it fisted in his shirt, holding it flat there against his chest. “It’s just true.”

You made a small, pained sound and dropped your forehead against his sternum, right where his hand held yours, and he felt the whole strung-tight weight of you gave at once and settled into him. He felt you breathe against his shirt at the same time he felt his own pulse going too fast on your knuckles; he wasn’t bothered enough to try and slow it, because there was no point now. You’d already found out. 

“Very grateful for you,” he murmured, his other hand pulled up to rest over the back of your skull. “Told you so earlier. Meant it more than you let yourself hear.”

You huffed against his shirt — half a sob, half a laugh, maybe the ruined cousin of both — and he felt it go through the cotton and land warm against his skin, felt your fingers uncurl a fraction from the fist they’d made then re-fist, like even now some part of you was checking he was still there to hold onto. 

Jack held still for it, same as you had in the family room for him. He was good at holding still, it was half the job, but this was a different kind — he supposed — where there was a plain animal willingness to be a wall for as long as you needed one and not move a muscle that might spook you out of it. 

He rested his chin at the top of your head, murmuring, “I don’t have to tutor you anymore, if that’ll help.” He swallowed, closing his eyes as he breathed in your faint perfume. “We can scrap the whole thing, if that’s what’s making you feel so bad.”

You stilled for a second, then made a small sound against him. 

Despite himself, despite it all, he let out a short chuckle. “S’okay. I’m the reason you got a seventy-one. You’re allowed to switch.” 

“You’re the reason it’s a seventy-one and not a thirty,” you said, and it came out muffled and immediate. You almost sounded cross, like you didn’t want the slander against him to stand even now.

After a moment against him, you added, “I don’t want to be just someone you help, I think. I don’t want to be somebody — I guess — that you’re just good to.”

When Jack hummed, you continued, “I don’t know what I wanna be instead. Just — a friend — or, I don’t know. Something that goes both ways.”

Jack’s chest swelled at the words. He felt that he’d have been anything you asked of him, simply because it had just become how it was. It was almost outrageous how, if you’d asked, he’d have handed it over, the whole rest of it, whatever you wanted the name to be, whatever box you needed him in.

A man his age was supposed to be past this. He was supposed to have calcified somewhere in the second decade of the job into something that didn’t reorganize himself around what someone he’d known properly only for the better part of the year had asked him.

“Consider it done,” he murmured, letting the word settle. Friend.

You breathed against him, and Jack felt himself want to remain exactly here and knew that he shouldn’t. He knew that the kind thing now was to give you somewhere to put your face that wasn’t his chest, some ordinary ground for you to set your feet back down on. 

“C’mon.” He got a hand on your shoulder and eased you off him gently, a slow, slow reclaiming of the eight inches of air between your body and his. He dipped his head to catch your eyes, which were pink-rimmed and swollen and doing their utter best to avoid his now that the worst was out of you. “Do you want me to order food?”

Your neck rolled back slightly as you met his eyes, caught slightly off-guard at the shift of tone. You blinked. “That was a lot, and now you’re asking about food?”

“It was a lot,” he agreed. He reached up and thumbed a smudge of leftover mascara from under your eye briskly, and you let him. “And now it’s done. So, food, and we can watch the stupid video you sent me before you head home.”

It had been six days since you showed up at his apartment, and Jack had embarrassingly counted every single one of them. You’d left his apartment somewhere past two with your eyes finally dry and a paper bag of his leftover Thai you’d protested and taken anyway, and he’d walked you down to your car and stood in the lot like some idiot in a movie until your taillights turned off his street, and then he’d gone back up to a quiet that felt, for the first time in years, like something had been in it.

Since then it had gone like it always had and nothing like it; you still turned up with flashcards and left a graveyard of half-drunk coffees on every surface. But he’d noticed how you started letting him sit closer now, let a compliment land without flinching off, and once, mid-story, had reached over and fixed his scrub top where it had folded under, casual as breathing. 

Friend was the word you’d settled on. Jack was thinking about that when Shen dropped into step beside Jack with a cup of fresh Dunkin sweating in his hand. 

“You know it’s not standard to let your girlfriend occupy the family room for three hours of your shift, right?” 

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Jack immediately clarified. It seemed more important to do now than it was earlier, when people only knew you when you came in as an emergency. Still, it felt wrong, like a key going in the wrong hole. “And you got a problem with it?” 

Shen lifted the coffee in surrender, unbothered. “You know we’ve grown to her. She and I do the Wordle every midnight.” Then, he spread one hand. “Administratively, she’s not staff. She’s not a patient. She’s not family of a patient. Which leaves the category I’d have to call —” He tilted his head, faux thoughtfulness. “ — Abbot’s girlfriend, and I don’t think that’s in the handbook.” 

“Try again,” Jack drawled, thumbing a form he wasn’t reading that didn’t need to be read. “She’s a nursing student getting hours of free tutoring off a board-certified attending. Put that in the handbook. Teaching hospital. I’m teaching.”

Shen shook his head, letting out a small laugh. “Alright. Alright. She’s not your girlfriend. Mind if I ask her out, then?” 

Jack snorted. “If you could only be so lucky.” 

“Clearly she has a type for attendings,” he pressed, grinning. “Or is it just the ones with gray hair?”

Jack looked at him sideways. “This is getting a bit weird, even for you.” 

“I’m happy for you, man. Even if you’re gonna make us all watch you not do anything about it for the next six months.”

“Mind your own damn business.”

“Sure,” he turned, lifting a hand over his shoulder as he went. “Close the blinds anyway. There’s a window on that door. Everyone can see her making you dumb.” 

Jack looked down the hall and set the form down before going there to close the blinds — telling himself it was for the window, for Shen’s real talk — and knowing, somewhere under that, that he was really just going to you. 

He could see you through the window in the door before he reached it, which was, he supposed, exactly Shen’s point. You had a textbook open in your lap and you were chewing the end of your highlighter, brow pulled in, mouthing something to yourself, working a card over your head. You’d pulled the sleeves of one of his old sweatshirts down to your hands, the one you’d swiped from his locker two weeks ago and never given back and that he’d never once asked for, because he’d found he didn’t want it back, found he liked seeing it swallow you.

You gave him a smile when he walked in. He reached up and tipped the blinds shut on the window with two fingers, the floor outside tipping away. 

“Why’d you close them?” you asked, slightly bored.

“Apparently the whole department’s been getting a show.”

You furrowed your brows then. “A show of what? Me failing?”

“Somethin’ like that.” He let it go at that, coming around and lowering himself onto the couch beside you, the cushion dipping and tipping you toward him a degree, what it always did that neither of you ever corrected. “How’s it going? Honest.”

“Honestly?” You blew out a breath, closing the highlighter. “I’d kill for a drink.”

“Oh?” Jack settled back against the couch, his arm coming up along the top of it behind you. “Telling that to the one man who’s seen what you look like at the bottom of the bottle.”

“Jaaaack,” you said, almost in a whine. “Let’s go to a bar.”

He snorted, dragging a hand down his face. “Now I’m wondering what’s pushing you toward the edge.”

He picked the flashcard you had set on the textbook, the one you’d been studying. He read the front of it without much intention — your handwriting was cramped and looping, a star drawn next to it — and turned over and checked the back. He did the same thing he always did, the story, the image; he’d done it a hundred times by now. He could do it half-asleep, and most nights he half was. 

You thought about it for a second, your bottom lip tugged between your teeth, then walked yourself to the answer. 

“Mhm. See. Good,” he murmured. He flipped the card to the back to check you, and you’d had it. Of course you’d had it, you’d had more of this than you ever gave yourself credit for. “Tell you what. Get the next three right, and I’ll get us a drink once your exams are done.” 

Your brows narrowed. “Bribe?”

“It’s an incentive.” He held up the next card, eyes on you. “Don’t think. Just answer me.” 

You did. One, then the next, then the one after. You were quicker now that there was something on the end of it, your lip caught between your teeth as you walked yourself there each time. He noticed you worked when there was something to earn. After all three, he hummed. “See. Good girl, there you go.” 

He felt you go still beside him, and his eyes flickered up to you to see your eyes dropping to your textbook. He stayed silent a second, eyes raking over you, your thumb running the worn edge of a card back and forth. 

Jack knew better than to point out how you being flustered was almost silly when he’d said the same words many times while taping you up or shining a penlight in your eyes. He let his arm stay where it was along the couch, hand not quite touching your shoulder, and watched the side of your face.

“You wanna do some more?” he said finally, voice coming out rougher. “Or are we done for the night?”

You held up a finger, as if telling him to wait.

“Okay, then,” he mumbled, leaning back further against the couch. “Take your time.”

After a second, he turned to say something dry to break the silence. You’d turned your head, too, and were closer than he initially realized, your eyes coming up off the card and finding his, near enough that whatever he had bubbling in his throat died there immediately. 

Jack hummed involuntarily. You closed the sound by pressing your mouth to his, the feeling of the plushness so very featherlight, there and barely there, the softest press. 

He went still as stone, every system in him locking at once. His hand was still along the back of the couch and his mouth hadn’t answered yours, not because he didn’t want to — God, he did — but because the entirety of him had gone still with the disbelief of it, with the you, here, choosing this — him — and the half-second of nothing stretched into a second, too damn long. 

He’d seized on you, the fact you’d nearly walked, had stood in his kitchen finding the kindest way to disappear, and here you were, closing the last of the distance yourself.

You pulled back like you’d touched a stove, a gasp leaving your mouth, replacing where his own had been. 

“Oh god.” Your hand flew up to your mouth, your eyes going wide before pinching shut completely. “I’m sorry — I’m so sorry, Jack. I read that so, so wrong. You’ve been so nice and I — fuck, I’m sorry.”

Jack made a pained sound that was lost somewhere in your ramble, at the sight of you snatching it back. Nothing had gone wrong. Jack knew you’d read nothing wrong, and that the only thing that had happened was that he’d been too slow, too stunned, too thirty-years-rusty to catch what had been handed to him in good reflex.

His hand came off the back of the couch and he caught your jaw, thumb on your chin as he pushed slightly against your skin. He was distantly aware that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so afraid about leaning in to kiss a woman, and went in to try and give you back the second he lost, mouth finding yours the exact way every bone in his body knew he should’ve the first time. 

You made a startled sound against him before the entirety of you melted. His mouth worked against yours, thoroughly, making sure not to fumble it twice. His thumb stayed on your chin, tilting your face the half-degree he wanted it, and when your lips parted on half a breath, his entire upper body leaned in to follow it, deepening it. 

It was you who moved first. Of course, it was you, always you. You followed it, the kiss pulling you up and forward, your knee coming over his thigh, and then you were settling over him. Jack let out the throatiest of a chuckle, still intent on keeping your mouth, as your hands slid from the front of his scrubs to his jaw. 

Jack’s hands caught yours on instinct — one at your waist, one at your hip — steadying you down to him, your hips still slightly in the air like you weren’t sure you could close the last of the distance, your weight held in the suspended air in the ache of almost, thighs braced on either side of his. 

Jack pulled back just enough to look at you, letting his head fall back against the back of the couch, dragging his eyes up the length of you poised over him. He blew out a short breath, the corners of his lips kicking up as his palm glided up and down on the side of your waist, catching onto your tank top on accident to show a sliver of skin at your lip — warm, soft, the band of your shorts sitting low — and he watched his own hand do it before he dragged his eyes back to your face.

“Nothing halfway with you, huh?” he said, the words practically coming out from his chest. His thumb rested against that bared sliver of you. “Climbing me at my work.”

You lowered your head, and your nose grazed against his. “You started it.”

“I did?”

“You closed the blinds.”

He let out a surprised laugh. “I can promise you I didn’t expect this when I did that.” 

Your lips ghosted over his for a second, and his chest swelled at the sight of you trying to tamp down the sweetest smile. “Problem?” 

“No.” The words came out immediately, because apparently somewhere in him, there was still something insatiable and teenage that had lurched up at the sight of you. “No. No problem.”

His hand spread flat and warm against the small of your back, fingers slipping under the hem of the top to your warm skin there, and he drew you down, finally, that last suspended inch collapsing as he settled your weight flush over him. 

He had to pinch his eyes shut a second, then open them again to take in the whole sight of you. His hand came up to your jaw. The light caught the loose hair at your temple, the bare line of your shoulder where the strap had slipped. Your mouth was full and flushed from his, parted slightly, your breath coming. The skin under his hand at your back was hot to the touch, and he spread his fingers wider against it just to feel more of it. 

You were trying not to smile. Your lip caught between your teeth, the corners pulling anyway. 

His finger perched against your jaw moved to your lips, dragging slowly across the lower one, parting it under the pad of his thumb. He watched it give, your breath warm against his skin. 

Your eyes flicked up to his as your lip closed around the first knuckle, your tongue hesitantly pressing flat against the pad, the wet heat of it catching him so completely off guard that the air went out of him in a rough exhale. His other hand fisted at the small of your back, turning over to gather the hem of your tank in his grip. 

“Oh.” His eyes had dropped to your mouth and fixed there, his jaw slack as his head cocked to the side. “Pretty.” 

His gaze was locked on the sight of his thumb disappearing past your lips, no hesitation in it, that same no-halfway boldness turned filthy and sweet all at once. The tired man in him went down all at once. 

His thumb dragged free, catching on your bottom lip and tugging it down before it slipped loose. His chest heaved harder now under the warm weight of you. 

“Where’d that come from?” he muttered gruffly, almost to himself, thumb pressing the slick of your own lip back against you. His palm moved to cradle your face, tapping your cheek softly once. “Can’t be doing things like that here, doll. I’m on call.” 

“Then don’t make it so easy.” Your lips brushed his thumb, then you moved down to press your mouth to the line of his jaw, the stubble catching your lips, then lower to the warm of his throat.

“You callin’ me easy?” he said through a chuckle, letting his head tip back. You scraped your teeth over the cord of his neck and felt the whole of him go tight underneath you, his fingers flexing hard into the bare skin of your back. 

“Alright.” His voice had dropped to stone. “You’ve had your fun.. No more of that,” he said, though made no move to stop you.

You peppered a line of pecks down his throat down to where his collar had started, your lips dragging over the jut of his collarbone through the thin cotton. He swallowed. One of your hands slid up to the back of your neck, fingers pushing into the soft gray at his nape, scratching light, and the other flattened over his chest, over the steady-then-not rhythm, fisting slow in the fabric just to feel him breathe wrong because of you.

You sat back an inch to look at him. His head was still tipped back against the couch, his throat bared where you’d left it momentarily pink and glossy, his eyes half-lidded. His hands had gone heavy and possessive at your hips, giving up pretending he wanted them anywhere else, you anywhere else.

You dragged your thumb over his bottom lip, watched it give, the same way he did to you. 

“Can I ask you something?” you asked, quietly, your hips settling more firmly into his lap. 

“Mm.” His hands spread wide, settling you down harder against him. “My social security number is — ”

You laughed. 

“Two-two-six — ”

“Jack — ” You swatted at his chest, the seriousness dissolving into something giddier. “I’m being serious. Stop.” 

“Okay, okay.” The corners of his mouth lifted up, and his hands squeezed slightly at your hips. He pulled his head up off the couch to meet your eyes properly. “Shoot. Doubt I could stop you.” 

“Are you seeing anyone?”

He let the question sit, humming. His thumbs moved idly at your hips, head tilting against the couch like the question required any real thought. “There’s a few women,” he said, lowering his voice as he looked at you, like he was letting you in on a secret. “There’s a nice lady who brings me fruit baskets.”

Your hand, on the flat of his chest, slid up slow to his throat and he kept talking like he didn’t notice.

“ — there’s this nurse on days who keeps leaving me her number at the station — ”

You leaned in and closed your teeth slightly on his earlobe. He let out a short laugh, one that was dragged out of him, his head tipped to give more of it to you without permission. 

“Alright. Okay,” he said as your nose dragged the line of his jaw. “Stop doin’ that. I don’t wanna explain teeth marks to the whole floor.” 

Your hips set firmer into his lap. “Jack,” you warned. “I can’t do this if you’re seeing fifty other women.” 

He sobered a degree, his thumb going still at your waist, his eyes coming up to actually hold yours. The joke drained out of his face as he realised the edge of seriousness you tried to tamp down, and he momentarily short-circuited at how it was even possible for you to wonder. 

“Hey.” His hand came up off your hip, pushed the hair back from your face and stayed there, cradling. “Until five minutes ago, there were zero women. Forget fifty.” 

Your only response to that was a smile and your cheek leaning further against his palm. He let his thumb move once across his cheekbone, watching the way your cheek turned into his hand. Your eyes drifted half-shut. There was a speck of dried highlighter ink on the side of your finger where it curled against his throat. The strap of your top had slid off your shoulder again; he looked at all of you and stopped bothering to pretend, even to himself, that he was looking at anything other than the only thing in the room he wanted.

“What about you? You seein’ anyone?” His thumb stayed where it was, but his voice had gone quieter. “‘Cause I’ve seen people bring you in. And I never liked one of ‘em.”

You huffed a small laugh, your nose grazing his. “Jealous, Doctor?” 

“Yeah.” He watched the laugh stall on your face at how easy he gave it up. “If there is, he should be worried. I’d like to take you on a nice date to change that.” 

“Ohhhh,” you drawled through a laugh. “There’s no one, but I won’t say no to the date.”

“Then you’ve got yourself one, doll.” He kissed you on it — short, sure, his hand still cradling your face — sealing the thing as the corner of his mouth caught yours before he pulled back. He let his forehead rest against yours for a second and breathed you in. 

Then, with a short groan, he tipped his head back off of yours. 

“I gotta get back out there.” His thumb was still moving at your jaw, clearly working against the very thing he was saying. “My work ethic’s going wrong and my residents might actually report me.” 

Then, his hands found your waist and he lifted you off, setting you off his lap and onto the cushion beside him where the entire thing had started. You landed with a small affronted sound, your hand fisting in his collar a beat longer before he had to let it go. 

You flopped back into the cushion where he’d deposited you, one hand pressed flat to your chest, the picture of wounded. “I guess it’s true what they say about old men. They use you. Wham, bam, thank you ma’am.” 

He stood up and scrubbed his palm down his face like he could wipe the last ten minutes off it before he had to walk out and be a doctor again. He could still feel the heat sitting at the back of his neck and even though he’d tried to scrub your gloss off, he was sure there was a remnant somewhere the worst possible person would notice. 

“Yup, got exactly what I wanted. Thank you, ma’am.” His hand came down to rest at the top of your head and gave it a slow, condescending pat, ruffling the wreck of your hair worse than it already was. “I’m a terrible man. You’re welcome to stay here while I go be one somewhere else.” 

He made himself step back and snagged his pen off the table, the badge, the small armor of the job clipping back into place piece-by-piece. The whole time his eyes kept catching on you, sprawled and rumpled where he’d set you down, looking up at him like the night had gone exactly where it was supposed to. He’d seen this room a thousand nights. He’d never once not wanted to leave it. 

“Mm. Gotta go home. S’almost three,” you mumbled. “And you get off at seven.” 

“I do.”

“So.” You pushed yourself off the cushion, slow, gathering your hair back off your face and pushing up your strap, putting yourself back together piece by piece the same way he was, the night closing in on both ends. “I’ll go and let you be a doctor. You’ve been very neglectful.” 

“Don’t I know it,” he muttered. He watched you reach for your textbook, your highlighter, the flashcards, and sweep it all back into your bag, feeling the small stupid pull of not wanting the room to empty out. 

He stepped in before you finished, catching your jaw, tilting your face up to kiss you once more. You went still under it, the bag forgotten halfway zipped, your hand coming up to rest light on his chest. He pulled back an inch to look at you.

“Text me when you get home,” he said, thumb dragging along your jaw. 

You chuckled, brows pulling in. “It’s a ten minute drive.”

“Text me. Humor an old man, since I’m so terrible to you already.”

[junebugonjupiter]

Birthright | Mangkwan Jake Sully

This is a part of my Mangkwan! Jake AU! You can read their origin story here.

Jealousy in June Prompts: 7. “Touch her and you die”

Word count: 1.7k

Pairing: Ash Na'vi!Jake Sully x wife!reader

Description: A visitor comes to ask the Omatikaya for an alliance, but Jake Sully would never honor an agreement with the fool that dares to touch what is his.

Content Warnings: AU where the Omatikaya turn into Ash Na'vi as well. Talk of killing, Neteyam and Lo'ak are little heathens, reader is pregnant with Tuk, probably OOC Wukula bc I've never played the game before.

Author's note: Based on this request by @yukiyuribot!

“Touch her and you die,” a gravelly voice came from behind Wukula.

Your lips rolled up into an excited smile at the sound of your mate. The Mangkwan warrior’s brow jumped, his hand freezing in the air over the spot where you had just suggested he feel for a kick from your unborn child. He cocked his head to the side, looking at you in the realization he had been set up for the sake of your own twisted fantasy.

“I promise a slow death, Mangkwan,” Jake growled low and quiet. 

Wukula dragged his eyes from you and looked over his shoulder, gaze alight with mischief, even though he had been played. It looked like he enjoyed the game just like you did. “I meant no offense, Olo’eyktan.” Wukula lowered his hand to his side and stepped back from you. 

You watched in fascination as the fire cast a red glow over one side of Jake’s face, covering the opposite side in darkness. “Don’t touch what isn’t yours.”

Wukula nodded, his hands held out to his sides in a sort of surrender as he backed away even more. “Of course not, Jake Suli. My apologies.” You circled around Wukula, letting your hips sway as you slid past Jake to stand on his other side. 

“What would you do if someone touched your Tsahik while she was swollen with child?” Jake asked, the tilt to his head a clear indicator of his agitation. You peered over his shoulder, letting your hands travel over the tense expanse of his back in silent support and delighting in the way he reacted to your touch.

“I would cut them from ear to ear,” Wukula answered honestly. 

“Then imagine what I would do to you if you had touched her,” Jake threatened. 

“Far worse from what I’m told,” Wukula smiled wickedly. “That is why Varang sent me to you. She wishes to forge a friendship against our mutual enemies.” 

Jake’s eyebrows lowered. “Which enemies? The uniting bands to the south? The Eastern tribes that you pissed off with all your raiding? Or our true enemy, the skypeople that still ravage our lands and take from our ground? The Omatikaya have only one true enemy,” Jake asked critically, head tilted as he evaluated Wukula’s answer. 

Wukula narrowed his eyes, “The Mangkwan have no quarrels with the skypeople, it is the other Na’vi clans that pose our problems.”

Jake shook his head, “There will come a day when the skypeople will come for you too,” he promised. 

“Even so, that day has not yet come and our enemies rally against us now. They are angry that we do not worship their goddess. They oppress us for living the way of life that our tribes share,” Wukula corrected, his tone betraying his discontentment at having to argue and being questioned. Something told you that he was not used to that. 

“No, they oppress you because you burn their villages and rape their women. Just as you have no quarrel with the skypeople, we have no quarrel with the other Na’vi clans. We have no mutual enemies,” Jake corrected. 

Wukula was not discouraged by this, he pressed on. “Then that just means that one day, you will need us, and we will need you, Olo’eyktan. A friend to call on in times of trouble.”

“And you planned to start that friendship by touching my mate?” Jake sneered, shifting his weight to one side and slightly bending his knee in a casual show of dominance that made your own knees weak. He was not worried, he did not fear Wukula or the Mangkwan. He would burn the world for you. It was undoubtable. That was power.

“I did not mean-” Wukula was cut off by Jake scoffing.

A set of two footsteps outside the tent made both you and Jake’s ears perk up at the sound. You exchanged a look and Jake grinned and called, “Neteyam, Lo’ak!” From just outside, two young boys of the ages of 8 and 7 came through the tent opening. Your heart softened at seeing their little faces, looking so much like both of their parents, and you smiled encouragingly when they glanced over at you.

“Come ’ere, boys,” Jake commanded and both of your sons diligently came to stand in front of him. Black, gray, and red paint slathered over nearly every inch of their skin. It protected them from the harsh sun, but it also created a fearsome image, especially with the added accessories made from small animal bones, feathers, and even a piercing in Neteyam's case. He had been begging for one for months so he could match you and Jake, and Jake had finally relented to one on each of his ear lobes.

Wukula’s brow raised and he looked confused. 

Jake brought his hands to each of their shoulders, “This man is from the Mangkwan. What do we know of them?”

Neteyam eyed Wukula analytically. “They are raiders that attack villages and the wind traders. They take resources and leave little else,” your oldest answered. 

“Good, ‘teyam. Lo’ak, what else?” you asked from Jake’s side. 

Your youngest looked up to you. “They enslave or kill Na’vi. They are led by a Tsahik called Varang.”

“Exactly, but do they attack tawtutes (humans)?” Jake asked. 

“No, only Na’vi,” Lo’ak answered. “We are the only ones to defend Pandora against the demons.”

“This man thinks the Omatikaya should come to the aid of the Mangkwan whenever they need us to. What does that tell you?” Jake pushed more. Wukula’s jaw was clenched so tightly, that it looked as if his teeth might break. 

“If they rely on others to come save them, then they are weak,” Lo’ak answered. 

“And what do we do with the weak?” Jake asked, eyes sparkling as he looked at Wukula, evidently amused. 

“We kill them. A diseased limb must be cut off the body to prevent it from polluting the rest. The weakness of one is the weakness of all,” Neteyam surmised.

“Very good,” Jake nodded, pleased with his well trained boys. Neteyam and Lo’ak both stood taller at their father’s praise, grinning smugly to themselves. 

“Can I please help you kill him, Sempul (father)? I did all my chores and I have been very good this week,” Neteyam begged and Wukula reared his head back in shock at the question,

“I can help too!” Lo’ak added, perking up at the prospect. “Please, Sempul!”

Jake patted their shoulders, “I’m afraid not, boys. This man needs to go back to his village so he can tell his Tsahik our answer.”

“Aw,” both of your sons sighed. 

“I know you are disappointed,” you cooed, opening your arms wide for them to step into. “Come here,” you beckoned. Jake’s hands slid off of their shoulders as they diligently followed instructions and came to join you.  

“See, even a child knows what a foolish errand this was, Wukula,” Jake said.

Wukula growled, hand flying to the blade at his side. Jake jolted forward, quickly putting you and the boys directly behind him. Your hand held your pregnant belly protectively as Neteyam let out a hiss at the threat to his family. You were proud of its clarity of sound. He would make a fearsome warrior someday.

“You have insulted the Mangkwan one too many times, Jake Suli,” Wukula said through his teeth. 

“And do you know why I can do that?” Jake asked, a mischievous glint to his eye that made you feel safe, even as Lo’ak and Neteyam watched wide eyed behind you. “Because before you could even draw your blade, my mate would call in the thirty some warriors around camp right now. You wouldn't be able to kill me in the time it takes for them to come. In fact, I could probably kill you in that time. You’re good, Wukula, you’re very good, but you don't have two young children and a pregnant wife to protect, and that makes me much more dangerous than you.”

Wukula snarled, knowing Jake was right. “Go back to your Tsahik and tell her what was said today. Don’t look for help here, Mangkwan,” Jake demanded, stepping away from the door and directly shielding you and the boys from Wukula. 

From around Jake’s broad back, you could see Wukula grimace and say, “This is not over, Jake Suli.” Jake’s posture grew rigid before Wukula stalked through the tent flaps and outside to his ikran. 

Jake's shoulders relax slightly now that his opponent was gone from his sight. “You did so good, baby. So brave,” you muttered, snaking your hands up his arms and resting your chin on his shoulder.

Jake glanced back at you. “He didn't hurt you?” he asked. 

“He did not lay a finger on me, ma Jake. I am yours only,” you assured him. 

Jake nodded, “Good. I’m yours, baby.”

“Sempul! You reminded him who was Olo’eyktan!” Lo’ak grinned, interrupting you and Jake, but you could never be mad at your baby boy for long. 

Jake smiled back, kneeling down to be at eye level with his boys. 

“Yeah! He was so scared of us!” Neteyam agreed. 

“You boys did a good job protecting your mama today,” Jake complimented them.

“Thanks dad! Just like you taught me,” Neteyam smiled, letting out another little hiss. 

Jake laughed softly at the cute sound. “Mighty Neteyam, warrior prince of the Omatikaya. Wukula stands no chance against you,” he said.

Neteyam smiled smugly as Lo’ak asked, “What about me?” 

“Not you, you’re too little!” Neteyam rejected. 

“Lo’ak may be younger than you, but that makes him no less terrifying,” you corrected. 

“That’s right. Let’s see your hiss, little man,” Jake encouraged his youngest. 

“Okay,” Lo’ak let out a long and flat hiss that sounded only slightly weaker than Neteyam’s, but even cuter. 

“Very scary. The fearsome Lo’ak, Son of Toruk Makto and slayer of demons,” Jake came up with a title of Lo’ak’s very own and he beamed at the name. 

“I will kill many demons too,” Neteyam added, not happy with the shifting of attention.

“Together, you two will kill them all. They will shake at hearing your names,” you nodded with a wide smile. “It’s what you were born to do.”

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[junebugonjupiter]

In the Early Morning | Jake Sully

Word count: 1.9k

Pairing: Jake Sully x mate!reader

Description: You comfort Jake after he has a reoccurring nightmare.

Content warnings:  angst, hurt/comfort, takes place after 3rd movie, Jake is traumatized, mention of Neteyam's death, reader takes place of Neytiri, only gendered wordage used is Jake saying "Yes ma'am"

Based on this request from @gaiestguyever-to-exist!

Heavy heaves of air left your mate’s lungs, the shifting of the hammock alerting you that something was wrong. You forced your eyelids open, turning to watch as Jake’s face screwed up in pain and frustration. His head jerked to the side, but the rest of his body was still. 

You rubbed at your eyes and could see the sun just peaking over the ocean out of the marui door. “Jake,” you called softly out into the humid, early morning air. Your children were sleeping peacefully in their hammocks around your reef dwelling and you did not want to wake them. Your voice did nothing to break your husband’s stupor, he was too deep into his dream to be easily woken. 

This was not the first time he had had nightmares over the course of your marriage. You had first observed them after the battle of Ayram Alusìng all those years ago, but they had slowed down after the birth of Neteyam. When your son had died over a year ago now, they had picked up with a fervor. He would sometimes tell you what they were, most did not seem so far from your own, but recently, you had felt him shutting you down when it came to his night terrors.

You gently ran a comforting hand up his arm, starting at his wrist and traveled over his shoulder and across his chest before eventually going up to his cheek. You softly patted his skin a few times as you called his name. 

“Jake,” you pleaded louder as his head turned again, thrashing into your hand. His eyes snapped open and he sat up with a gasp, causing the shifted weight to send you falling forward behind his back. You scrambled to a seated position, using his shoulder as a support, and you watched him over his shoulder. His head fell into his hand, fingers pressing harshly into his forehead as he hid his pain from you.

“Ma’ Jake,” you started, resting a hand on his arm, which he did not seem to register. He gave no reaction other than his breathing slowing down a little. “Are you alright?” you asked, forehead wrinkling as you could see so little of his face. 

He breathed in a sharp breath. “I’m fine,” he mumbled after a moment. The wind picked up and blew through your home, causing the shells hanging from twine to make a soft tinkling sound just outside. 

“I need air,” he decided, swinging his legs over the hammock and standing. Your arm fell uselessly back to the woven fabric as he left your range of motion. From the slope of his shoulders and the hanging of his head, he looked utterly beat down and defeated. You nodded numbly, despite the fact that he could not see, as he ambled outside and disappeared behind the thin wall. 

You gave him a moment, debating on what you should do, before you swung your own legs over the side and slowly followed him. Your eyes immediately found him standing a ways away facing the water. He looked as if a heavy burden weighed down on him, making his shoulders droop and his frame appear weary. 

“Ma’ Jake,” you said quietly, alerting him to your presence. He stilled before he swiveled around to face you, his eyes narrowed and deeply pain-filled. 

“What is wrong?” you asked quietly, reaching forward again.

He was shaking his head before you had even finished speaking and your heart sank further. “I’m fine,” he insisted, but the look on his face said anything but.

Your eyes narrowed. “Why do you hide this from me? Is it something so terrible that you will not tell your mate?” you asked and he immediately stiffened, becoming warily defensive as if he was wading out into unknown waters. 

“It’s not anything worse than what you’ve already seen with your own eyes. I’m fine,” he said again, but you believed his words less each time he said them.

“Jake, together we have raised and lost children, fled from one home to the next. We have lived side by side, fought side by side for many years. There is nothing that you have to hide from me, I am not scared of those parts of you,” you reminded him.

His eyes narrowed, his lips pursing as he seemed to grow only more tense at your words. “You aren't listening. I’m fine,” he spat out. The words in themselves were not necessarily a problem, but the vitriol that filled his tone and the anger in his face made your stomach drop.

Your own lip curled up at his words, anger now rising up and covering the hurt that he was causing you. “Do not talk to me that way. I have not deserved it,” you bit back at him and that seemed to be the needle that popped the bubble. You stepped back, disappointed in yourself for lashing back out at him when you knew he was hurting.

The tension seeped out of the moment little by little as Jake’s posture changed at the reminder of who he was talking to. His shoulders deflated and his face changed into one of regret. He stepped forward, closer to you, as his mouth opened once before closing again, but no words came out. 

“If you do not wish to speak on it, then I will leave you. My apologies for not hearing you,” you said, your voice a little softer now, but still sounding stricken and maimed.

You turned to leave, eyes involuntarily welling with tears as footsteps sounded from behind you. Before you could make it back into the marui, you heard your name being called in Jake’s soothing voice. His arms wrapped around your middle, entrapping your arms to your side as he gently tugged you back. 

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, baby,” he pledged and you let him pull your back flush to his skin, his warmth instantly drowning out the chill you had felt. 

You did not say anything as he brought his forehead to rest on your shoulder, murmuring platitudes as you thought out your response. His hair fell over your shoulder, tickling your arm and grounding you.

“Jake…” you mumbled and your voice drew his head up. “Please, do not close yourself off to me,” you pleaded, a single tear finally breaking free from your eye and falling onto your cheek. “It scares me when you get like this,” you admitted and you felt his arms loosen as he circled around you, coming to your front.

“Baby… I never want to scare you, I just… I buried these dreams so long ago. These are old hurts that just, they won't die, no matter how many times I kill them,” he explained and his words made your face soften in understanding. 

“Your legs,” you guessed and he pursed his lips, but nodded. “Your injury brought up many old feelings,” you continued.

“It’s completely healed, just a scar now, but inside?” he tapped his chest with his finger. “I had no idea it would leave so much damage behind. When I could barely stand… When I almost couldn’t defend you… the children… that shook me,” he said, shaking his head.

“If Lo’ak wasn’t there, I would’ve failed. We could all be dead…” he trailed off, voice breaking with emotion.

“But we are not,” you reminded him, freeing a hand from where your arms were pinned and caressing his cheek. “I know that was scary, not being able to walk again,” you surmised.

“It was terrifying,” he croaked, his voice breaking under the weight of the emotion he was carrying.

“I am so sorry, Yawnetu (beloved). Share your burdens with me. What do you see when you sleep?” you asked him. You ran your fingertips firmly over his forehead, smoothing out the creases there that had formed from his worry. 

His troubled eyes glanced down in melancholy before flicking back up to meet yours. “I’ll show you,” he said, reaching around to his back, brushing his kuru over his shoulder and grabbing hold of the end. 

You breathed out a sigh of relief that he was letting you in, just as he had done for so many years. You smiled softly before you nodded, pulling your own from around your back and bringing the end to where Jake was offering his. Your eyes met, having done this hundreds of times before. You knew the beat of his heart, the pattern of his thoughts, the way his voice sounded the same in his head. 

When nerve endings intertwined, you felt a rush of panic and frustration course through you, but also, you could tangibly feel his dependability and his ardent love for you. You felt alight with the feel of Jake in your mind, but was quickly burdened with the vision in front of you.

Behind your closed lids, you could see his dream. It was obviously taking place during the battle with the RDA, you could almost feel the arrow in his leg and the way it throbbed. He crawled over rocks and sand, grasping the ground for purchase as you saw your own self farther out at sea on the vessel. Varang stood over you, inflicting pain as she was linked to you. The pain you had experienced was excruciating, nothing like connecting with your mate. Jake felt warm and solid in your mind, his heartbeat dancing with yours in your ears. 

You could feel the change rather than see it. The imposing stature of your husband shrunk down to half its size as his human body struggled in an attempt to get to you. You felt his fear and desperation through the bond as you watched him drag himself across sharp rocks, but you also felt his shame. 

You blinked your eyes open and found Jake was already searching your face. His nearness clouded your mind, all the reasons you loved him coming forward. His kindness, his smile, his fearlessness, the way he loved your children, his smell, how he liked to crack jokes and ease the tension out of your shoulders, each part of him that made him yours. He smiled as he evidently felt your emotions through the bond.

“That is not what happened,” you whispered. 

“It’s still what I see every night,” he explained. 

You closed your eyes again, and forced the dream from your mind and Jake’s, conjuring up an entirely new image. You recalled the memory of him saving you, how relieved you had felt when you had seen him fighting back the Mangkwan and remembering how safe you knew you were in his arms after the battle was over. 

“This is how I remember those moments,” you said softly. Your eyes cracked back open and were pleased to find a slight smile on his lips as you replayed the way you had prayed to Eywa as you laid in his arms that night, thanking her that you both were alive and for your remaining children’s safety. 

Jake’s eyes opened slowly a moment later, nodding as he carefully disconnected your kurus. “Thank you for showing me that,” he said, swallowing thickly. 

“I will show you every memory of when you made me feel safe, if it helps you realize that you do not just make me feel that way when you defend me in battle. Even if you did not have your legs; hearing your voice, being held in your arms, laughing with you, those things make me feel just as protected,” you said and rose to your tiptoes so you could gently place your forehead against his. 

Your breath mingled as he smiled. “I love you so much,” he insisted. 

You smiled, “And I love you. I understand your worries, but let me share carrying your burdens next time. It is my job,” you encouraged him and he nodded. 

“Yes ma’am,” he agreed.

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[woozycatz]

ৎ୭ before the mantle takes root

THIS IS PART TWO!! ৎ୭

prompt: after mating with neteyam and becoming tsakarem, you and him must face a multitude of obstacles to eventually love eachother freely.

pairings: Neteyam x omatikaya!reader, Neytiri x reader, Lo'ak × Neteyam, Jake sully × Neteyam, Jake sully x reader. (all platonic except for neteyam x reader)

warnings: a little cursing, slightly suggestive, angst, fighting, themes of war, bloody injuries, kinda torturous of you blink, touchy!feely!neteyam, grown up characters, kissing, body insecurities.

wc: 17.5k.

find part one... here!

notes: this took an embarrassingly long time to publish, i truly apologize!. this is part two, but this might have to be a multi part series, i am lowkey invested. kinda did bad before so i had to repost 🫩

Two days later, the night washes over the village, silver light spilling across the platform. The clan gathers beneath the sacred tree, blue seeds drifting in the air like tiny stars. Drums echo slowly, their rhythm moving through the hearts of every listener. You and Neteyam had known that there’d be a bonding ceremony, but now you doubted whether or not you were ready. 

Villagers searched frantically for you, but you were nowhere to be seen. Neytiri took it upon herself to find you—and she did. You sat alone on a rock near the riverbank, hands curled in moss which stuck to the rock beneath you. 

“What is wrong?” Neytiri whispers, careful not to scare you. 

You glance back at her for a heartbeat before turning to face the water again. But she notices the way your shoulders sag, the way your ears droop low, and the way your tail is still beside you, your tail is almost never still, always flicking and alive, but not tonight. 

She moves closer, one hand reaching to rest on your shoulder gently. “Tell me,”

You spare a side glance and finally, you break apart. Her concern deepens, arm swinging carefully around you, pulling you against her side. You bury your face in her shoulder, defeat breaking you down. 

“When you are ready..” She murmurs, smoothing your hair. 

You nod slowly, soft sobs escaping you involuntarily. “Is it Neteyam?” She asks. “Has he done something?”

“No,” you manage, “It is my mother, I miss my mother and I miss my father.”

Her eyes soften immediately, though dark with understanding. War took her father as well, she understands the hatred you hold for the sky people because she feels it too. Because they took everything, and you had to grow with it. 

“Oh, Y/n…” 

“I am forgetting his face,” you cry, guilt twisting your features. 

“Do not.” She whispers, “this is not your fault. You are stronger than this, than the demons. Strong heart. And you are tsakarem.” She beams. “Your mother would be very proud, your father too.” 

Neytiri holds you there for a long moment, letting your grief spill out into the quiet night. The drums from the village drift faintly across the water, steady and patient, as if the forest itself is waiting for you.

Her hand moves slowly along your back, calming you.

“Your father’s face lives here,” she murmurs, gently touching the center of your chest. “Not only in your eyes.”

You shake your head weakly. “But it fades… every season it fades more.”

Neytiri sits beside you fully now, folding her legs beneath her. The silver light reflects across the river, turning the water pale and soft. For a moment she watches the current.

“My father,” she says quietly, “was a mighty warrior. When the war came… the sky people took him from us.” Her voice does not break, but it deepens with the memory. “For many nights I feared I would forget the sound of his voice.”

You lift your head slightly, listening.

“But my mother told me something.” Neytiri brushes a tear from your cheek with her thumb. “The People do not vanish. They walk with Eywa. They walk with us.”

She gestures toward the forest where the sacred trees glow faintly, seeds drifting through the air.

“When you hunt with honor… when you help the clan… when you show kindness to the children… your parents see it. Through Eywa.”

Your breathing slowly steadies.

“You became tsakarem,” she continues with a proud smile. “You heal. You listen. You carry the songs of life.” Her eyes warm. “This is not forgetting them. This is becoming what they raised you to be.”

The image of your father is hazy, but you remember the feeling of his hand on your head. The sound of your mother’s laughter when you returned from gathering herbs. The way they spoke about Eywa with reverence. Your fingers tighten in the moss. “I wanted them here,” you whisper. “Tonight. I wanted them to see.”

“They will,” Neytiri says gently. “Only not with the eyes you know.”

She tilts her head toward the village. The drums have grown louder now, the rhythm calling. “The clan waits. And Neteyam waits.”

At his name, your ears twitch faintly. Neytiri notices and smiles a little. “That boy has walked circles around the platform for half the night,” she says softly. “Like a nervous ikran.”

Despite yourself, a small breath of laughter escapes you. She stands slowly, offering you her hand. “Come,” Neytiri says. “Do not hide your heart from the People. Your parents’ spirits will be there tonight. I feel it.”

You hesitate only a moment before taking her hand. Together you walk back through the glowing forest. Seeds brush your shoulders as you pass beneath the sacred trees, drifting like tiny stars.

As the platform comes into view, the entire clan stands gathered in the silver light. The drums slow. at the center stands Neteyam.

His posture straightens the moment he sees you. Relief floods his face so openly that a few nearby hunters chuckle quietly. Your tail flicks for the first time that night. Neytiri squeezes your shoulder once. “See?” she murmurs. “He was worried.”

Neteyam steps forward carefully, as though afraid you might vanish again. “You disappeared,” he says, hands rubbing over your arms, checking for injuries. “I thought-” His words stop when he sees the traces of tears on your face. Immediately his expression softens. Without thinking, he reaches for your hands.

“I was afraid,” he admits quietly. The drums begin again—slow, deep, echoing through the trees.

And under the drifting seeds, beneath the watchful eyes of the clan and the unseen presence of Eywa, the ceremony is about to begin.

Neteyam guides you through the crowd, stopping just before the people, before Mo’at. the warmth of his presence is steady through the bond you already share. His hand brushes yours lightly, a silent reassurance.

At the center of the gathering stands Mo’at, her hand rises and silence passes through the crowd. “You stand before Eywa tonight,” she says, voice deep and calm. Her gaze moves between you and Neteyam. “Not as strangers.” A few knowing smiles ripple through the clan. “You have already chosen each other.”

Your ears warm slightly. Mo’at’s eyes soften for a moment when they rest on her grandson. “But tonight, the People will witness what the forest already knows.”

An elder steps forward carrying two braided cords woven with pale sacred seeds. Mo’at lifts one cord.“These are not bonds that force the heart,” she says. “They remind the People of the path that has already been chosen.”

She hands one braid to Neteyam. He turns toward you, his usual warrior’s confidence replaced with something softer, it still amazes you sometimes.

This is the same man you once argued with at every hunt. The same man who once challenged you before the entire clan because neither of you would yield. Until somewhere between anger and rivalry, something changed.

Carefully, Neteyam ties the braid around your neck. His fingers linger for a moment longer than necessary.

You take the second braid and tie it around his neck. The drums slow again.

Mo’at raises her hand slightly. “Speak your truth.” Neteyam lifts his chin. “I see her.”

The sacred words ripple through the clan. “I saw her strength even when she stood against me,” he continues, a faint smile touching his lips. “She fought me. Argued with me. Refused to bow to me.”

A few hunters chuckle softly. His thumb brushes over your wrist. “somewhere in all that fighting… I began to admire her.” Your tail flicks behind you. “I chose her then,” he finishes quietly. “I choose her still.”

Mo’at nods once and turns to you. “And you, Ma’Y/n?”

You glance briefly toward the circle of villagers. For a heartbeat your eyes find Aysea, she watches calmly, arms folded loosely across her chest, bitter.

You turn back to Neteyam. “I see him,” you say. Neteyam’s ears tilt slightly toward you. “I saw the boy who thought he knew everything,” you add, a small smile forming. “But I also saw the man he would become.” Your voice softens.“When the forest was quiet, when no one was watching, he was kinder than he allowed anyone to see.”

Your fingers tighten gently around his. “I chose him then.” You breathe slowly. “And I choose him again.”

Mo’at lifts her hand once again, gesturing the the people. “Then let the clan witness.”

Neteyam glances down at you with a quiet grin. “You ready?” he murmurs. You nod, simultaneously, you lift your kurus. Even though the bond already exists between you, the moment still carries weight beneath the eyes of the clan, and beneath the eyes of Eywa. The neural tendrils intertwine. Warmth rushes through the connection between you, familiar, steady, and alive.

The clan murmurs softly as the act is witnessed beneath the sacred tree. Mo’at raises her voice. “Eywa has already seen this bond.” Her foot strikes the platform once. “Now the People see it as well.”

The drums explode into celebration. Cheers ripple through the gathered clan. Neytiri smiles with quiet pride, tears stinging her eyes while Jake crosses his arms with an amused shake of his head.

Neteyam leans close, pressing his forehead gently against yours, through your bond his thoughts brush warm against yours.  

The night goes on, celebration begins, dancing, feasting, laughter. Neteyam keeps you close all night, one hand on your hip as he chats with the warriors of the clan, men and women drown you two with blessings all night. 

 For a moment everything feels peaceful. Then the forest goes quiet, the insects stop, the distant animals go silent, a rumble rolls across the sky, your heart drops.

Gunships. Jake’s voice cut through the village. “Get down! Take cover!” 

A missile slams into the far side of the clearing, the explosion tearing through the night and flames erupt as wood splinters and platforms collapse. Children scream as searchlights cut through the forest. 

“Sky people,” you mutter, hand squeezing Neteyam’s arm tightly. 

Demon ships roar overhead, Neteyam drags you behind tree roots as bullets tear through the woods. He already grabbed his bow. “Stay behind me.” 

“No,” you snap, grabbing your own weapons.

Soldiers begin to descend from ropes, the battle erupts instantly. Arrows fly upward while machines shred branches. Neteyam fights beside you until a small voice cries out.

“Neteyam!”  Amidst the chaos, Tuk is alone with only Kiri to help. Neteyam sees. There is no running as three armed men surround them.

“I have it over here! Go!” You tell Neteyam, already pushing him toward his sisters. 

He hesitates and then he doesn’t, feet slamming into soil, running straight to them. “Kiri!” He shouts. Three soldiers advance toward them, Neteyam’s entire posture changes. 

He is not only a warrior, he is a big brother. “Get down!” His voice bellows, Kiri listens immediately, shoving Tuk behind the beam.

Neteyam’s arrow drops the first soldier, then the next two. He focuses solely on getting his sisters to a safe place and having them join the young ones which Kiri will look after.

A new kind of call roars overhead, not sky people, not your people…no. Ikran, war cries. Na’vi ones. Mangkwan raiders glide into the battlefield from above. Your body physically tenses. You have not seen the Mangkwan since your fathers death. They are who took him away when they became allies of the sky demons, they held him down before you and let you watch the sky people take everything.

The doubt that you cannot fight this creeps into your muscles, but you ground yourself immediately. This is what they would have wanted. 

Your arrows fly free the way you were taught. Your body moves gracefully, dropping many—mangkwan and the demons. 

A raider drops just a couple feet away from you, but you are too busy with others to notice, then his bowstring trembles.

A white hot pain rides up your thigh, calves buckling, bow dropping a few inches away. You reach for it instinctively, but your legs are too weak, you let yourself fall back against a fallen tree, leg trembling, ankles hovering slightly as you hold your knees against your chest.

“Ah!—” You cry, chest heaving with dry breaths, fingers trembling rapidly, a tall, broad shadow dims yours. 

“Well, well…” You look up slowly, the raider who had just shot you stands there, tall, body paint cakey and thick.

He leans down, hands clenching loosely around your necklaces. “The little healer falls…” His hand runs down to the arrow pierced into your thigh, flicking it suddenly, goading the wound. 

“Agh!” You hiss, fingers digging into his wrist. 

He frees himself with ease. “I will not hesitate to kill. Do not forget your position here, tsamsiyu.” 

He pushes the arrow in deeper, your cries bleed into short gasps, sweat beading at your forehead. “Neteyam!” You cry. You are not one to ask for help, pride keeps you from it—but right now you need someone.

“You call for who? The Mate?” The raider scoffs, “what a weak warrior you are…cannot fight for herself, needs mate to come.” 

The only thing giving you strength is pride, and you hold so much pride. “I am not weak.” 

He laughs, not loud, just a cruel breath of amusement. “Not weak?” he echoes, standing closer. The paint on his face creaks when he grins. “You are on the ground. Bleeding.”  

Your leg trembles under you, the arrow buried deep in your thigh. Every breath feels sharp. Still, you push your hand though the dirt, trying to reach the knife at your hip. 

He sees it immediately. His foot pins your wrist to the ground. “You should have stayed with the healers, helping elders and little children, not pretending to be a warrior.”  

Your ears flatten, but you don’t look away. “Move!”

He laughs under his breath and crouches closer, his hand grips the arrow and gives it a slight twist. Pain tears through your entire leg. Your back hits the fallen tree as a strangled cry escapes you. 

You suddenly jerk your free leg forward, kicking him hard in the ribs. It isn't clean, but it knocks him off balance for half a step. you lunge for your bow lying a few feet away.  

Your injured leg collapses instantly. You fall again, catching yourself on your hands. The raider quickly recovers, his hands squeezing your shoulders and forcing you back into the tree. “I will kill you,” you rasp, nails digging into the soil. 

“Kill me? I don’t think-” a whistle cuts through the battle field and just then, an arrow pierces through his shoulder. 

“Get away!” Neteyam hisses, running fast toward you two. The mangkwan stands quickly, reaching for his weapon, but Neteyam raises his. “Get away.” He warns.

The raider steps back, glancing at you. “You are lucky.” He storms off after his clan who are retreating on the ikran. 

“Y/n,” he murmurs, leaning down immediately. “Are you okay?”

Your eyes narrow slightly. “Yes, yes I am completely okay…” 

“Okay…you’re joking. That is a good sign.” One of his arms moves behind your back, the other at your thighs. “Let me get you out of here.” 

Your cheeks flush despite the situation. “Put me down, Neteyam.” 

“Are you crazy? You cannot walk.” He runs through the aftermath of the battle, rushing you to the hide where the healers are. “I have to get you to my grandmother.”

Your hand rests on his chest, the other wrapped around his neck. “Is the tree okay?” You whisper.

“Yes…thanks to you, to the other warriors.”

“Did anybody die?” 

“I am not completely sure.”

“Okay,” you close your eyes. “Wake me up when you are sure.”

“Do not sleep now, you are losing blood.”

He sets you down on the mat in Mo’at’s kelku, his fingers lingering on the wound, 

Mo’at enters, immediately getting to work. The moons pass quietly after the battle. Your leg heals slowly under Mo’at’s watchful care. The wound leaves a faint scar along your thigh, but your strength returns with each passing day. You walk the forest trails again. You gather herbs, tend to the wounded, and slowly return to training with the hunters.

Neteyam never strays far during that time. Sometimes he pretends he is simply passing by the healing hut. Sometimes he lingers longer than necessary while Mo’at checks your bandages. Neytiri notices, of course. She says nothing, but the small smile she hides is impossible to miss.

Eventually, after weeks of healing, the day arrives when Mo’at finally nods in approval. “You are strong enough,” she says simply.

The meaning behind it is clear, you can stay in your own home again. A new hut stands on the edge of the village platform. It isn’t large, but it’s beautiful in its own quiet way. Fresh woven walls. Soft moss bedding, just the way Neteyam knows you like it. Bundles of herbs hang from the rafters where you’ve already begun arranging them. The entrance opens toward the forest where glowing seeds drift through the night air. Your new home. 

A different feeling pools in your stomach as you rearrange the same object, over, and over, and over again. 

The hut is quiet except for the soft crackle of the small fire and the distant hum of the forest outside. Your new home still smells like fresh woven leaves and damp wood. You should feel peaceful, but you don’t. 

Neteyam sits across from you near the fire, loosening the leather wrap around his wrist after a long day of training the younger hunters. You’ve been moving around the hut for a while now—adjusting things that don’t need adjusting, shifting baskets, tying and retying herb bundles.

Your tail flicks restlessly behind you. Neteyam watches for a moment before speaking. He knows that this is what you do when you do not want to interact with anyone. “You’ve moved that basket three times.”

You glance at him briefly. “I like it there.” 

“You liked it in the other two places too.” You do not answer and the silence stretches longer than it should. He tilts his head, studying you. “What is wrong?” 

“Nothing.” You murmur. 

He lets out a quiet breath through his nose.  “Ma’Y/n.” You hate when he uses that tone—the calm one that says he already knows something is bothering you.

You stop fiddling with the basket and sit down across from him. “You knew,” 

He blinks, hands pausing at his wrist. “Knew what?” 

“The things that Aysea said to me.” 

His shoulders shift slightly, leaning forward. “I knew you two argued, yes…” 

“Argued?” You echo. 

“Yes.” 

You laugh humorlessly.  “Is that what you thought it was?” 

His brow furrows. “You fought every time you were near each other.”

“She mocked my parents,” you say quietly.

Neteyam’s expression tightens, guilt riding up. “I know she said some things.”

“Some things?” 

“Y/n—”

“She said my mother died because she was weak.” 

The words fall flat, Neteyam straightens. “I never heard her say that.” 

“Because you never listened, Neteyam! You threw one blind eye at everything! Do you know how difficult it was to watch you side with her every time?! To watch you kiss and touch her?” You hiss. 

You continue, eyes stinging. “She would tear into me in front of everyone. And then you would stand beside her like she had done nothing. Do not think I have forgotten this just because we are mated.” 

“That’s not fair-come on, baby.” 

“Not fair? She stood in front of the hunters and told them my father died because he wasn’t strong enough to protect himself!” 

Neteyam’s jaw tightens. “I did not hear that.”

“But you heard enough!” you shoot back, tail lashing sharply. “You heard the way she spoke to me. You heard the way she laughed when I trained your sister.” 

“That was rivalry,” he says slowly.

“It was humiliating!” Your voice echoes off the woven walls.

He steps toward you. “You both challenged each other constantly.”

“She tells the people that I was only chosen as tsakarem out of pity! Because my parents are dead!” 

“I… never heard that,” he whispers.

“Of course you didn’t,” you snap. “You were too busy pretending it was just two warriors arguing.”

“I was trying to keep peace,” he says. 

“You were protecting her! You stood beside her all the same!”

“That is not true!” 

“You were promised to her!” you explode. “The clan expected you to defend her!”

“I did not choose her over you.”

“But you didn’t choose me either!”

The words hit him like a blow. “For months,” you continue, voice shaking, “I stood there alone while she tore into everything I had left.”

“You should have told me,” he mutters.

“I shouldn’t have had to!” Your voice cracks. “You’re supposed to see things like that. You’re supposed to lead this clan one day!”

“I cannot see everything!” he snaps. 

“Neteyam!” You cry. “You saw enough!” 

“I thought you were strong enough to handle her,” he admits, his voice quiet now.

“Strong enough?” Tears sting your eyes. “You think that meant it didn’t hurt? My parents are dead!”

He steps closer. “Y/n—”

“No!” you shout, stepping back. “You did not just stand there!” Your voice trembles. “You stood beside her!”

“I, I-” he tries, his hand reaching toward you.

“Don’t!” You shake your head sharply. “You do not get to touch me right now.” He hesitates, then lowers his hand. You take a small step back.

“I did not realize-” He starts.

“You didn’t care!” Another tear slips down your cheek, you wipe it roughly.“She told me you would always choose her. That she was the one meant to stand beside the future olo’eyktan.” Your breathing becomes uneven. “And every time you smiled at her or kissed her, it felt like she was right.”

Neteyam looks shaken. “I never chose her over you.”

“You were promised to her. And you made it seem like you did choose her.”

“But I mated with you.”

“Because you needed me.” The words hit harder than anything else, Neteyam stills. “You came to me because you could not hear Eywa anymore,” you whisper. “You said the forest felt silent. You did not come to me because you loved me, you came because you were lost.”

Neteyam steps forward. “That’s not—”

“And if Eywa had answered you sooner,” you continue bitterly, “you never would have come to me at all.”

His expression falters, he reaches for you again. “Y/n, please. Listen to me, you’re overthinking—”

“No!” Your voice shakes.

He still gently catches your wrist. “Let me-”

“No!” You snap, backing up slowly toward the doorway and running to the forest. Your feet race to the only place you will find quiet, the hollow—because when things get hard, and when you find no soft moss or biolumescent plants to sleep within, the hollow is your friend.

Neteyam starts after you, stopping at the doorway, figuring that you need time. He sits silently on your shared hammock, the hut feels wrong without you in it. 

Your scent still lingers in the woven blankets. One of your herb bundles hangs crooked because you tied it too quickly earlier. The basket you moved three times sits near the wall.

Neteyam leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands pressing against his face. His breathing grows uneven before he realizes it.

He squeezes his eyes shut but it doesn’t stop the burn building behind them. A tear slips down his cheek before he can stop it, he wipes it away roughly. He should have seen it.

He has been trained his whole life to read the forest—tracks in the soil, broken branches, shifts in wind. Yet somehow he failed to read the person standing beside him.

Suddenly he stands, he knows exactly where Aysea will be. The village platform is quieter now. Most of the clan sleeps, but a few fires still glow softly. Aysea sits near one of them weaving beads into a necklace.

She looks up when Neteyam approaches, a slow smile spreads across her face. “Well,” she says lightly, voice smooth. “The great warrior comes to visit, I knew it wouldn’t take too long.”

Neteyam’s eyes narrow instead of returning the smile. “Did you mock Y/n’s parents?” 

Aysea tilts her head, feigning innocence, letting her gaze linger on him a moment longer than necessary. “That is a strange greeting,” she murmurs, letting a playful smirk tug at her lips.

Neteyam’s voice drops. “Did you say her father died because he was weak?”

Aysea studies him, eyes glinting, before she shrugs. “Words are said, and sometimes in jest.”

“You told the clan she became tsakarem out of pity,” he says, stepping closer.

Aysea rises slowly, circling him. “And now you care very deeply for her,” she murmurs, letting her fingers brush lightly along his arm as she passes.

Neteyam stiffens, pulling back without a word. Her smile deepens. She leans slightly closer, lowering her voice to a teasing whisper. “You could have stopped me, you know… you didn’t.”

Neteyam’s jaw tightens. He holds his ground, gaze sharp. “You were promised to me,” she continues, letting her hand hover near his chest, brushing the air with a teasing intimacy. “Everyone knew it. One day, I thought maybe you would realize.” 

He steps aside, firm and composed. “I mated with her,” he says, voice cold.

Her eyes flash with something between amusement and challenge. “Because you needed her,” she counters, tilting her head, letting her hand brush near his shoulder. “Everyone knows the mighty hunter could not hear Eywa anymore…”

Neteyam’s expression hardens, his posture steady, eyes never leaving hers. “You will not speak of her like that again.”

Aysea laughs softly, a low, provocative sound. She takes a step closer, voice teasing. “Or what, Neteyam? Are you going to punish me?”

He grabs her wrist firmly, removing her hand without harshness, keeping his composure, though the tension hums through the air. “Or you will answer to the clan,” he says, voice low and unwavering.

For the first time, she hesitates, a flicker of surprise passing her features.

“If I ever hear you insult her parents again,” he continues quietly, deliberately, “you will regret it.”

He turns and walks away, each step measured, unshaken.

Behind him, Aysea watches with narrowed eyes, lips curling slightly—not in victory, but in quiet frustration. She had tested him. She had pushed, tried to unsettle him.

But he had not wavered. And now, the challenge is no longer just words. Someone else had seen her touch him—and the consequences will not be hers to command.

On his way back, Neteyam decides to go sit with Jake, still stressed as the night progresses. “Uh ohh,” Lo’ak laughs from his spot beside their father, pulling Neteyam down and watching him closely.

“What’s wrong?” Jake asks, teasing but concerned deep inside.

Neteyam does not answer immediately, just rubs his chin contemplatively. “It’s Y/n” he finally murmurs.

Lo’ak’s ears perk up curiously. “What about her?” 

“She’s angry.” 

Jake smiles softly, “why?”

“Cause I messed up..”

“Yeah? Just apologize.” Jake leans back slightly, arms folding across his chest as the fire crackles between them. The glow lights the deep lines in his face, the kind that come from years of leading and making mistakes.

Lo’ak snorts quietly. “Yeah, bro. Just say ‘sorry.’ Not that hard.”

“Don’t start.” Jake says, raising a hand without looking at Lo’ak. 

Lo’ak shrugs and leans back, the grin never leaving his face. Jake studies his eldest son for a moment. “What’d you do?”

Neteyam exhales slowly through his nose. “I didn’t see something I should have.”

Jake nods once. “Okay.”

“She told me Aysea mocked her parents… for months.” His jaw tightens. “Said her father died because he was weak.”

Lo’ak’s smile drops instantly. “She said that?”

Neteyam nods faintly. Jake’s expression hardens slightly, though his voice stays calm. “And you didn’t know?”

“I heard them argue,” Neteyam admits. “I thought it was just rivalry between two women, two warriors. I thought she could handle it.”

Jake lets out a slow breath through his nose.

“That’s the problem,” Neteyam mutters. “She said I stood beside Aysea while it happened. That I protected her.”

Jake tilts his head. “You did, we all saw it.”

Neteyam hesitates. “…Sometimes,” he says quietly.

Lo’ak glances between them but doesn’t interrupt. Jake leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Son, being a leader isn’t about seeing every bullet flying through the air. That’s impossible.”

Neteyam stares into the fire. “But,” Jake continues, “when someone you care about is hurting, and you miss it… that sticks with them.”

Neteyam’s ears droop slightly. Jake gestures with his chin. “You know what mistake you made?” Neteyam glances up. “You assumed she was strong enough not to be hurt.” 

Neteyam looks away again.

Jake nods slowly. “Your mother does that too. Strong people get handed more pain because everyone thinks they can carry it.”

Lo’ak murmurs, “Yeah… Y/n’s pretty scary though.”

Jake gives him a sideways look.

“I’m just saying.” Lo’ak murmurs.

Neteyam rubs his face again. “She said something else.” Jake waits. “She thinks I only chose her because I needed her to hear Eywa again.”

That makes Jake pause. “That’s what she believes?” he asks quietly.

Neteyam nods. For a moment, Jake doesn’t speak. The forest hums softly around them. Then he says, “Did you love her before that?”

Neteyam answers without hesitation. “Yes.”

Jake shrugs lightly. “Then the problem isn’t what’s true. The problem is she doesn’t know it.”

Neteyam frowns slightly. Jake gestures toward the forest. “Right now she’s sitting somewhere replaying every moment where it looked like you chose someone else.”

Neteyam’s shoulders tighten.

“And if you walk up there and just say ‘sorry,’” Jake continues, “she’s gonna hear: ‘Let’s move past it.’”

Lo’ak nods. “Yeah. That would not go well.”

Neteyam groans quietly. Jake continues seriously. “If you want to fix this, don’t defend yourself first. Listen, apologize, don’t say anything but ‘I'm sorry.’ It always works.”

Lo’ak laughs, wrapping his arm around his brother's shoulders. “Or you could just make loooveee”

“Lo’ak.” Jake warns, pulling him back.

“Dad, seriously… we’re not kids anymore.”

“You still act like one.” Neteyam says. “I will give her my apologies. I just hope she accepts them.”

“Yeah, she can be stubborn…but when you’re mated, things are different. She sees you, and she feels you. There is anger, there might be lingering hatred, there is jealousy, but beneath all of it, there is love.” 

Neteyam nods once, adjusting his wraps and gathering water for you to drink. 

Tonight the silence presses heavily around you. You sit curled against the curve of the tree, knees pulled close, tail wrapped loosely around your ankle. The anger from earlier has burned itself out, leaving only the ache beneath it.

You hate that you cried in front of him. You hate that the words came out the way they did. But most of all—you hate how long you held them inside.

A soft footstep breaks the quiet, you don’t look up. Neteyam stops a few paces away. He doesn’t approach immediately. He knows this place; he’s followed you here before when you needed space.

For a long moment, neither of you speak.

Then he lowers himself slowly onto the moss—not beside you, not yet. A respectful distance away. “I brought you water,” he says quietly.

Your tail curls around your ankle, still refusing to speak. You glance at the small bowl of water but don’t reach for it. 

For a while, neither of you speak. The silence stretches long enough that the night insects begin filling it again. Then he exhales slowly. “I’m sorry.”

Your ears flick, but you stay still. “I should have seen it,” he continues quietly.

You stare ahead at the glowing plants.

 “I heard you and Aysea argue for months,” he says. “I thought it was two hunters trying to outdo each other. That was my mistake”

Your fingers tighten in the moss as the words settle between you. Neteyam’s eyes never leave your face. “I thought you were strong enough that it didn’t matter what she said.” 

Your voice comes out low. “That’s the problem.”

Neteyam nods faintly. “I know.”

You finally turn slightly toward him, he isn’t defensive, he isn’t angry, he just looks ashamed. “I asked her tonight, about the things you said.” he says.

Your ears lift. “And?” you whisper.

“She did not deny them.”

Your jaw tightens, Neteyam’s voice lowers.“She will not speak about your parents again.”

“And why did you choose to kiss and touch her right in front of me all of those times?” You say.

“If I am being honest, I wanted to see how you would react…we just hated each other so much, I wanted you to feel how “little” I cared. But you seemed unbothered.”

“I was not unbothered.”

 “I know now, but at the time, touching and kissing her was what felt… right? Only for the moment, because it is what everybody expected.”

“And you let expectations dictate everything that you do.” Silence falls, you glance at him, part of you regrets the words, the other part doesn’t at all. 

The forest breeze moves softly through the leaves. You stare at the ground. 

“I stood beside her too often,” he admits. “Even when I thought it was nothing. And that meant something to you.”

Your throat tightens and you nod faintly. “It meant everything,” you whisper.

The quiet stretches again. Neteyam rubs his hands together slowly. “There’s something else you said. That I only came to you because I couldn’t hear Eywa.” 

You don’t answer, he watches you carefully. “That wasn’t the beginning though, the beginning was long before that.” he says. You glance at him, brows furrowing slightly. 

Neteyam leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “It started when you beat me in front of the hunters.” Despite everything, a tiny breath of laughter escapes you. 

“You were furious,” he says.

“You challenged me.”

“You humiliated me.” He counters. 

“You were arrogant.”

His mouth twitches faintly. “Kinda.”

The moment softens slightly. Then his expression grows serious again. “But even then… I admired you.”

You look at him more fully now.

“You stood your ground even when Aysea provoked you,” he says. “Even when others told you to step aside.”

“They doubted me,” you huff. 

“You didn’t care.”

“I cared,” you say quietly.

“But you didn’t bend.” The forest hum deepens around you. “I noticed that,” Neteyam says. Your chest tightens slightly. 

“I thought it was rivalry between us.” He continues. Your tail shifts faintly. 

“But when Eywa went silent, that’s when I realized the only place the silence disappeared was when I was with you.”

 Your breath catches at his words. 

“I did not come to you because I needed you,” he says carefully. “I needed you because I had already chosen you.”

The words sit deep in your chest, you look away toward the glowing roots. “I hated seeing you with her,” you admit quietly.

“I know.”

Your voice grows softer. “I thought if Eywa spoke to you again… you would leave.”

Neteyam shakes his head immediately. “Never.”

You study his face. You seel something steady and warm beneath his expression. Not guilt, not obligation, just certainty. 

“Come here, come closer.” He murmurs, but before you can even process his request, he moves behind you. The argument feels far away now, replaced by the quiet warmth of Neteyam’s arms wrapped around you.

He sits behind you against the thick tree root, your back resting against his chest. His legs are stretched on either side of yours, keeping you tucked close.

For a long moment neither of you speaks. His fingers trace slow circles along your forearm. “You’re still thinking,” he murmurs near your ear.

You sigh softly. “I always think.”

“I’ve noticed.” His chin rests lightly on your shoulder. The warmth of him, the steady rise of his breathing, the bond between you—it all settles something deep inside your chest.

“You really thought I chose her?” he asks quietly.

Your ears lower slightly.“For a long time… yes.”

Neteyam tightens his arms around you. “I never chose her.”

You turn slightly in his arms so you can look at him. The glow of the forest reflects in his eyes, his bioluminescent freckles glowing brightly in the night. 

He studies your face carefully, like he’s memorizing it. “You drive me insane sometimes,” he murmurs.

A small smile slips onto your lips. “You love me.”

“That too.” His hand lifts to your cheek, thumb brushing gently along your jaw. You don’t pull away. The kiss comes slowly at first, tentative, the last of the tension between you dissolving with the contact. Then it deepens. Your hand slides into his braids as his other arm wraps firmly around your waist, pulling you closer against him.

The bond between you warms brightly. Time fades into the quiet breathing of the forest and the soft rustle of moss beneath you.

At some point you end up lying against the roots with Neteyam above you, laughter slipping between quiet kisses as the night stretches on around you.

Eventually the two of you settle together again in the moss—his arms around you, your head resting against his chest. And the forest watches quietly while sleep finally finds you both.

Morning light filters through the canopy. You wake slowly to the warmth of sunlight and the weight of Neteyam’s arm draped across your waist. Your braids are slightly loose, and your tweng is definitely not tied the way you remember tying it.

You shift carefully, sitting up. Behind you, Neteyam groans softly. “Too early,” he mutters.

You glance back at him. He’s half awake, hair a mess, faint moss still clinging to his shoulder. “You look ridiculous,” you say. 

“You’re one to talk.” He says. You glance down and realize that almost every one of the ties keeping your covers together have come loose. Your ears warm immediately.

Neteyam notices, the soft grin that spreads across his face is insufferable. “Don’t,” you warn. 

“Don’t what?” 

You quickly retie the strings of your loincloth and top. Neteyam sits up, stretching lazily before reaching for the leather ties of his own gear scattered nearby. “You’re staring.” You mutter.

“I am appreciating.” He corrects.

Your tail flicks sharply, but you cannot hide the smile that keeps forming. “Impossible. You’re so insufferable sometimes.” 

“You did not seem to think so last night.” 

You shove him lightly. He laughs quietly while tightening the last strap across his chest. Then he leans forward, pressing a quick kiss to your lips before standing. “Come on,” he says.

“The clan will definitely notice we disappeared.” You laugh.

He teases your tail. “So? We are mated…and grown. We have the right.” He leads you through the forest, one gentle hand lingering at the small of your back, tracing absent circles there. 

“We also have responsibility, hm?” 

“Everybody needs to wind down sometimes.”

“You sound like my mother,” you leap carefully from a fallen trunk, landing gracefully on your feet. 

Neteyam watches for a moment before landing beside you himself. “Do I?” He smiles.

“Just the way you speak.. Yes.” 

“She was mighty. I am proud to have fought beside her.” 

“Yes.” You smile, taking his hand.

The outline of the settlement comes to sight. You both walk through the village slowly. The minute you step into the main platform, several villagers glance up. 

Your tail moves lazily behind you, your eyes brighter. You look lighter. Across the platform, Neytiri’s eyes find you, they move over you once, then to Neteyam. A small, knowing smile forms. 

Jake notices too. “Well,” he nudges Lo’ak. 

Lo’ak follows his gaze to you, talking to some fellow warriors, and to Neteyam, watching you closely. You’re glowing. his grin spreads instantly. “Ohhh.”

Neteyam barely makes it three steps before Lo’ak intercepts him. “So,” Lo’ak says loudly. 

Neteyam sighs. “What?” 

Lo’ak gestures vaguely between him and you. “You two disappeared.”

Neteyam keeps walking, his eyes scanning over you from a distance before looking away. “Many people disappear at night.”

“Together?” Several nearby hunters start chuckling. One of them leans toward Lo’ak.

“She looks happy.”

Lo’ak grins wider. “She looks exhausted.”

Neteyam stops walking. “Lo’ak.”

“What did you do to her bro?” 

Another hunter snorts. “Let the man breathe,” he says. “It was clearly a long night.”

Laughter breaks out. Neteyam drags a hand down his face. “You are all like children.”

Lo’ak claps him on the shoulder. “Congratulations, big brother.”

“For what?” 

“I don’t know, she forgave you though..” He laughs, running off.

Neteyam shakes his head and joins the council circle, the men and women discuss patrol routes, hunting trips, and other strategies. You sit beside your mate, one hand resting on his bicep, the other on your hip. Knowing that you will stay behind for this one but still standing there for future reference.

“We’ll take a 2 day expedition.” Jake announces. 

Neteyam, as always, will lead this trip. your duties as tsakarem keep you in the village. He glances at you briefly. “I will be back soon.” 

“I know.” You say.  

Before leaving, he presses his forehead gently against yours, peppering you with soft kisses. Then the hunters disappear into the forest.

The next day passes quietly, you help the weavers repair nets and gather herbs for Mo’at. Late afternoon, one of the younger weaving apprentices approaches you hesitantly. 

“Y/n?” she says quietly. 

You look up, “yes?” 

The girl fidgets nervously. “I saw something last night.” 

Your ears tilt slightly. “What did you see?”

“I saw Neteyam with Aysea.”

Your hands pause. “They were talking,” she continues. “And she was very close to him. She touched his arm, and his shoulder”

A small knot forms in your chest, but you stay quiet. “Then he grabbed her wrist.” Your ears flick. “I thought maybe…” the weaver trails off awkwardly.

You force a calm smile. “Thank you for telling me.”

The girl nods and leaves, but the seed of doubt has already been planted. You clean up the herbs and store them away, moving to sit anywhere else. 

Jake finds you at eclipse shooting reckless arrows at woven targets, slicing them. “Now, now, you’ll break all our targets.” He laughs. “What’s got you so angry?” 

“Your son.” 

He huffs, “which one?”

“Neteyam.”

“Again?” Jake says, a hint of amusement in his expression. “Oh, it’s serious. Again?”

“Yes!” 

“What’d he do?” 

“He was seen with Aysea.”

“Doing what?”

“I don’t know—talking, touching!” 

There is quiet for a moment before Jake speaks. “Look, Y/n…i know my son. Neteyam is loyal, and he loves you. Have you maybe considered talking to him before jumping to many conclusions?”

You look down for a second, foot kicking grass. “No…”

“They’re getting back tomorrow morning. Talk to him, hm?” 

“Okay” 

“Okay?” He says, backing up to leave.

“Yes, okay.” 

“Alright, get some sleep, I'm sure it’ll be a long day tomorrow.”

You sigh, watching him go for one second before hanging everything back up. You head toward your new home only to find it already open, inside, your herbs—owed to Mo’at by tomorrow—trashed and knocked over. 

The careful order you’d spent hours building is gone. Bundles of drying herbs lie scattered across the floor, some crushed into the woven mats. Others have been pulled down entirely, their bindings snapped. The sharp, clean scent of healing leaves is now bitter, mixed with dirt and something trampled.

“No, no, no.” You stumble, hands curling around nothing. Who would do this? 

Your ears flatten as your eyes scan the hut again, more carefully this time. Nothing else is taken. Nothing valuable missing. Just the herbs. Just your work. Just your place. A slow, burning realization creeps in. Aysea.

Your tail lashes sharply behind you. For a moment, anger surges hot and immediate—your first instinct is to turn, to march straight back into the village and drag the truth out into the open for everyone to see. Your breath comes in sharp, uneven pulls, chest rising too fast as you stand in the middle of the destruction.

But this is exactly what she would want. A scene, or a reaction. Proof that she can still get under your skin. 

Your hands tremble over your now destroyed, hard work. You separate what can be salvaged from what cannot. The salvageable herbs are sorted into smaller piles, re-tied with fresh fibers. The damaged ones are pushed aside, your mind already calculating what you’ll need to gather at first light. Your movements become precise again—controlled, practiced.

But your ears remain low, because beneath the control, that feeling lingers. Violation. You get little to no sleep that night, the smell of herbs lingers in the room, mocking you and your decision; not confronting her yet.

The morning comes quicker than you admit you want it to. It should feel steady, but it doesn’t. Neteyam is returning today.

You dress nicely; a low and thin loincloth hangs from the curves at your hips, your top is an elegantly adorned piece with strings that wrap at the waist and little coverage at the top.

You stand just outside the hut, arms folded, watching the hunters land and speak with Jake and other ongoers. Neteyam looks around as if expecting someone to be there beside him. But you just stand and watch.

The weavers' words ring through your mind. Neteyam is taking too long to finish speaking with warriors and hunters. too long to get back to you.

So you approach quietly. “Neteyam,” you say.

“Yes, my love?” 

“We need to talk, come.”

His posture changes immediately, eyes focused now. “Okay..” He follows you, watches how differently your hips move this morning, the way your tail flicks, sharp—not swaying and calm, but sharp.

You stand in a private area, not far into the forest, just close enough to the village for people to see, not close enough for people to hear. “I heard you were with Aysea that night, before you came to the hollow.” 

He sits on a heavy log in front of you, hands resting behind him, leaning back slightly, watching you stand above him. This time, there are no interruptions. No voices cutting in. Just the two of you and the quiet hum of the forest. “I was.” he exhales slowly. 

Your chest tightens, but you don’t lash out. 

“I went to her after you left,” he continues.

You cross your arms, grounding yourself. “And?”

“I asked her about what she said to you. About your parents.” His jaw tightens. “She did not deny it.”

Your ears flick slightly.

“She tried to get close,” he adds, more quietly now. “To distract me. To twist things.” His eyes lift to yours. “I stopped it.”

“How?” you ask, steady.

“I grabbed her wrist. I moved her away.” He holds your gaze. “I warned her. Clearly.”

Silence stretches between you. You study him. Not just his words, but the feeling beneath them.

His lips twitch faintly. “I chose you before the silence. I chose you after. I’ll keep choosing you.” He says.

There is no hesitation. No flicker of doubt. Just certainty. “I don’t like her touching you,” you admit finally, voice quieter now.

His expression softens just slightly. “I don’t like her anywhere near you.”

That earns the smallest breath of a smile. You step a little closer. “You should have told me,” you say.

“I know.”

Another step, you take his hands now.  “You should have shut it down faster.” You tease.

“I know that too.”

You huff softly. “You’re agreeing too easily.”

“I’m learning.”

That disarms you more than anything else. Your shoulders ease, just a fraction. For a moment, neither of you speaks. The tension that had been coiled tight between you begins to loosen, thread by thread.

Then Neteyam releases you—slowly, hands pausing at your waist. giving you space to pull away if you want to. You don’t. “These clothes are unfair.” 

“Hm? How?”

His fingers hook around the thin straps which keep your loincloth at your hips. “So thin, so beautiful.”

His hand settles at your waist again, warm and steady. Yours lifts to his chest, fingers brushing lightly over the familiar rise of muscle beneath your touch.

He pulls you onto his lap, kissing your neck immediately, “I missed you,” he breathes.

“I did too. more than I'd like to admit.” 

He laughs softly. “I missed your scent. The hunt felt so long.”

“Yes.” you rub your cheek against his, his hands moving down to your ass, holding you there. 

Tuk creeps around the corner, giggling softly. “Neteyaaaam” she says.

He jumps, pushing you off of him and beside him as fast as he can. “Tuk!”

“Tuktirey,” your cheeks flush. “You’re too old to interrupt like this.” 

She laughs. “Was I supposed to knock?” She looks around.

“We’re in the forest, you cannot knock…” 

Neteyam laughs at your words, earning a sharp look from you, he corrects himself immediately, then he looks at his sister and loses it. 

“Thanks captain obvious.” Tuk manages between giggles. 

“Who is captain obvious?” You ask, ears pinned down, lips tight in embarrassment. “Why are you laughing at me?”

“I don’t even know, it’s something daddy says.” 

“Oh. Sky people things?” 

“Probably,” 

Neteyam rubs his face, laughter dying down, hands wrapping around your waist. “I’m sorry baby. I won’t laugh at you again.” His smile betrays him. 

“Liar.” 

Tuk shifts awkwardly, clearing her throat. “Anyways… Kiri said to come get you guys. I wish she came with me so she could see this. We are preparing the dancing circle for a celebration. Let's go! Come on!”

She runs off first, Neteyam pokes your ears which are still hanging low. He laughs softly, kissing and nipping at one gently. “I’m sorry,” 

“Stop it, let’s go.” You smile, dragging him along. “I cannot wait to dance.” 

By the time the sun begins to dip, the village comes alive again. The hunt was successful. And that means celebration.

Drums begin first—slow, steady, echoing through the trees. Then voices, laughter, movement. The entire clan gathers on the main platform, bodies swaying in rhythm as the firelight flickers gold against blue skin. 

You stand at the edge first, watching, sipping water—preparing. Then a familiar hand wraps into yours. Neteyam.  “Come,” he says simply. 

You do not resist, the rhythm pulls you in quickly. Your body remembers it easily, fluid, precise, alive. You’ve always been a skilled dancer, your movements sharp where they need to be, soft where they should flow.

Neteyam steps in behind you, hands settling naturally at your hips. The contact sends a quiet warmth through you. His head hangs low, watching the roll of your hips.

“You’re staring again. I can feel it.” you murmur. 

“I am appreciating,” he replies, just like before.

You huff softly—but your body leans back into his without thinking.

The two of you move together easily, your hips rolling in time with the drums, his hands guiding just enough to match your rhythm. The space between you disappears quickly—no awkwardness, no hesitation.

Around you, the clan dances, laughs, celebrates—but for a few moments, it feels smaller. Quieter. Just you and him. “You’re showing off,” he murmurs near your ear.

“You’re slowing me down,” you shoot back.

His grip tightens slightly in response, pulling you closer, matching you step for step now. “Better?” he asks.

You smirk faintly. “We’ll see.” The dance stretches on, heat building from movement, from closeness, from the steady rhythm of drums under your skin.

Eventually, Neteyam’s hands slip from your hips. “I’m going to sit before Lo’ak starts yelling about me abandoning him. I’ll be back,” he mutters.

You glance over to see Lo’ak already watching with a grin. “You should go,” you tease.

“I’ll be right there,” he says, brushing his fingers briefly along your side before stepping away.

You stay, of course. The music doesn’t stop. And neither do you. At first, it’s nothing. Just movement. Rhythm. The circle shifting, bodies passing close and then apart again.

And then a misstep. Your foot catches slightly, you recover instantly, eyebrows knitting faintly. And then another misstep. 

This time you feel it, not an accident. Your eyes shift and behind you, Aysea. Her expression is calm. Your jaw tightens, but you keep dancing.

Maybe it was nothing, then it happens again. Clear this time, a deliberate nudge at your ankle. You turn slightly, still moving with the rhythm. “Stop.”

She doesn’t respond, Instead—another attempt. Your patience snaps a little. “I said stop,” you repeat, sharper now.

A few nearby dancers begin to notice. Aysea finally meets your eyes and smiles. “Careful,” she murmurs. “Wouldn’t want you to fall.”

Your stomach drops, not from fear, but from recognition. You step toward her, the dance forgotten now. “Do not touch me again.”

Her smile sharpens. “Or what?” she asks lightly.

You take another step. “I won’t ask again.”

Something flickers in her eyes. And then, she leans closer. “Like your mother,” she murmurs softly. “One wrong move… and she fell too, didn’t she?”

Everything stops, the drums, the movement. The air in your lungs. For a split second—you’re not here anymore.

You see the fall, the sky torn open by gunships. The scream. The empty space where she should have been.

Your chest caves inward. Then it explodes outward. You move before you think. Your fist connects with her face hard enough to snap her head back.

Gasps ripple through the circle. Aysea stumbles—but recovers instantly, fury igniting across her features as she lunges for you.

This isn’t dancing anymore, this is a fight.

You meet her head-on, your training takes over, clean, efficient. You block her first strike, twist her arm, drive your elbow into her shoulder. She hisses, retaliating fast, catching your side with a sharp hit that forces you back a step.

You don’t stay back, you surge forward again.

She grabs for your hair—you duck, sweeping her leg out from under her, but she twists mid-fall, dragging you down with her.

The two of you hit the ground hard, now it’s chaos. Hands, fists, breath knocked loose, bodies struggling for leverage. You land another strike—she snarls, shoving you back, nails scraping your arm. “You think you’re better than me?” she spits.

“I know I am,” you fire back, driving your forearm into her throat just long enough to pin her.

She bucks hard, throwing you off balance. The circle has broken now—people shouting, moving. But no one gets there fast enough. because you’re both warriors, and neither of you is holding back.

Strong arms wrap around your torso, yanking you backward. “No—!” you snap, thrashing.

“Enough!” Neteyam’s voice.

Another set of hands drags Aysea away as well—firm, unyielding. Jake. “You two are done!” he barks.

Your chest heaves violently, body still straining against Neteyam’s hold. “Let me go—mm!”

“No,” Neteyam says, breath tight near your ear. “Not like this.”

Across from you, Aysea is held just as firmly, blood at her lip, eyes blazing with something wild and furious.

The entire clan is watching now. Silent. Tense. The celebration is gone. Replaced by something heavier.

“Ive got you.” Neteyam whispers.

Silence settles over the platform like a heavy fog, the drums have stopped. No one moves. You can still feel Neteyam’s grip around you—firm, unyielding, his chest rising and falling quickly behind your back. Your own breath is uneven, sharp, your blood still burning from the fight.

Then, a presence strikes the air. Mo’at steps forward slowly. Neytiri stands beside her, assessing. Mo’at’s eyes move between you and Aysea. “What is this?” she asks.

Her voice is not loud, but it carries. No one answers immediately. Your chest rises and falls as you try to steady your breathing. Neteyam’s hold loosens slightly—but he doesn’t let go.

Aysea is the first to speak. “She struck me,” she says, voice sharp despite the blood at her mouth.

Your head snaps toward her. “You—”

“Quiet.” Mo’at doesn’t raise her voice. But it lands like a command. You clamp your jaw shut.

Mo’at’s gaze shifts to you now. “You will speak.”

Your heart pounds hard against your ribs—but you don’t look away. “She provoked me,” you say, voice still edged with heat. “She has been provoking me.”

Aysea scoffs faintly. Mo’at’s hand raises again. “Enough.”

Silence returns instantly. Neytiri steps forward slightly now, her eyes narrowing at Aysea. “This is not the first time,” she says, calm—but dangerous.

Aysea’s posture stiffens. Jake folds his arms, gaze sharp. “and we’re not treating it like the first time.”

The weight of that settles over the circle.Neteyam finally releases you—but stays close, one hand hovering near your arm like he’s ready to pull you back again if needed.

Mo’at turns fully toward Aysea now. “Speak truth.”

Aysea lifts her chin. “We were dancing. She became aggressive.”

A few murmurs ripple through the crowd. Your nails dig into your palms—but you hold your ground. Mo’at’s eyes flick to you again, you inhale slowly. “She has been targeting me,” you say. “For cycles now.” Your voice steadies as you continue. “She insulted my parents. She disrupted my work. And tonight—” your jaw tightens “she spoke of my mother’s death.”

That lands hard. Neytiri’s expression darkens instantly. Jake’s posture shifts—subtle, but unmistakable. Mo’at goes very still, Aysea doesn’t speak this time. Because she can’t deny it.

“You speak of the dead with dishonor?” Neytiri says, voice low and sharp as a blade.

Aysea finally looks uncertain. “It was only words—”

“They are enough,” Neteyam cuts in, stepping forward slightly. His voice is controlled—but there’s steel beneath it now. “You’ve said more than enough.”

Aysea’s gaze flicks to him—and something in her expression falters. Because this time—he is not standing beside her. Mo’at watches this carefully. All of it. “This ends now.”

Her foot strikes the platform.  “You have brought conflict into the heart of the clan,” she says, looking at Aysea. “You have shown disrespect—to the People, to the dead, and to one who serves as tsakarem.”

Aysea’s jaw tightens—but she doesn’t interrupt. “You will not approach her again,” Mo’at continues. “You will not speak of her family again.”

A pause, then. 

“You will serve under the tsakarem for one cycle. You will repair what you have damaged.”

A ripple of surprise moves through the clan. Your ears flick slightly, Aysea’s eyes widen—just barely.

Humiliation, public, intentional. “You will answer to her,” Mo’at finishes.

Silence falls heavy.  Aysea’s fists clench at her sides—but she bows her head slightly. “…Yes.”

Mo’at turns to you now. “And you.” Your spine straightens instinctively. “You are a warrior,” she says. “But you are also tsakarem. You do not let anger lead before wisdom.”

Your chest tightens—but you nod. “Yes.”

Mo’at studies you a moment longer, then— “It is done.”

Her hand lowers. The tension breaks—but not completely. People begin to move again, slowly, murmuring, the energy shifted entirely from celebration to something more watchful.

Eyes linger, Jake signals for the celebration to continue—but you don’t even feel like dancing any more. 

You move away from everything to go to your home. Tears stinging your eyes. You sit on your bed. Neteyam lingers at the threshold for a moment before coming inside. “Baby,” he starts.

Your shoulders drop just slightly. “I didn’t want to lose control like that,” you admit. “Not in front of everyone.”

He nods once. “You didn’t lose control.” You give him a look. “You held it longer than most would have,” he corrects calmly. “Longer than I would have.”

That almost pulls a breath of a laugh out of you—but it fades quickly. “I hate that she still gets to me,” you whisper.

Neteyam finally moves then, slow, careful—resting his hands lightly on your knees. “Of course she does,” he says. “She went after the part of you that still hurts.”

You look away because that’s exactly it. He doesn’t push you to look back.“She chose the one thing she knew would break through everything else,” he continues more quietly. “That’s not your weakness.” A pause. “That’s love.”

Your eyes close for a second. That lands deeper than anything else tonight. The anger, the fight… the humiliation. None of it was really the core of it.

It was them, always them. Your voice comes out softer now. “I thought I was doing better.”

“You are.”

“It didn’t feel like it.”

“It never does in moments like that.”

Silence settles again—but it’s different now. Less sharp. More like something slowly unwinding. After a moment, you finally look at him fully.

“I don’t want to be that person,” you say quietly. “The one who reacts like that.”

“You’re not,” he says simply.

“I just proved I am.”

“No,” he shakes his head slightly. “You proved you’ll defend what matters.”

When you lie down that night, he doesn’t give you space like he sometimes does. He stays close, arm wrapped around your waist, leg hooked slightly over yours, not possessive, more protective. 

Even in sleep, when you shift, his grip tightens instinctively—pulling you back against him without waking.

As if somewhere in his mind, he’s still in that moment, still making sure you’re safe.

You wake before him, or at least, you think you do. Until you shift and realize his arm isn’t resting loosely anymore. It is still there, just not relaxed.

You turn your head slightly, braids still messy from the fight. Neteyam is awake, staring out towards the forest through the open doorway, still, quiet, and thinking. 

You sit up slowly. “You didn’t sleep.” 

He blinks once, like he didn’t realize you were awake. “I did,” he says.

You study him for a second, “not much.”

“I slept enough.” 

You pull your legs in slightly, watching him. “Neteyam.”

He hums faintly in acknowledgment, but doesn’t look at you yet. That stings more than it should. “Are you going to look at me?” you ask.

That gets his attention, so his head turns. And when his eyes meet yours—you see it clearly, something tight. Something contained. “I am looking at you,” he says.

You frown slightly. “Then talk to me.”

“I am.”

You let out a small breath, frustration creeping in. “No-you’re answering me.”

He looks away again briefly, jaw shifting. You hesitate then ask it anyway. “Are you mad at me?”

This time, he looks back immediately. “No.”

You hold his gaze. “Then what is it?”

He exhales slowly, dragging a hand down his face before resting his forearms on his knees. “I didn’t like it,” he says finally.

Your chest tightens. “Me fighting?”

“No.” The answer comes sharper than anything else he’s said.

Your brows knit. “I didn’t like that it happened,” he corrects, quieter now. “I should’ve stopped it sooner,” he adds.

Your expression softens slightly. “You weren’t even there at first.”

“I should’ve made sure it never got that far.”

“You cannot control everything, Neteyam.”

“I can control who I allow near you.”

““You’re angry at her?”

“Yes…and at myself.” That last part is quieter.

You move a little closer to him. “Why?”

He huffs softly—frustrated, but not with you. “Because this isn’t the first time she’s done something like this.” You don’t argue that because it’s true. “And I let it go before,” he continues. “I thought it was nothing.”

Your gaze drops slightly. “It wasn’t nothing to you,” he adds. That lands somewhere deep.

“No,” you admit quietly. Silence settles again—but it’s different now. Less sharp and more honest. You reach out, fingers brushing lightly against his arm. He doesn’t pull away. “You don’t have to carry all of that,” you say.

His eyes flick to your hand… then back to your face. “I know,” he says.

But he doesn’t move away from your touch either. After a moment, his hand shifts—turning just slightly under yours, fingers brushing against your wrist. “I’m not mad at you,” he says again, softer this time.

“I know,” you reply.

“Let me do your hair.” He laughs softly, “come here.”

You brush your fingers through your hair, but they get caught in a knot. “Fine…”

He moves to sit behind you, your back rests lightly against his chest, his legs folding on either side of you, steadying you in place.

his fingers lift—hesitating just slightly before touching your hair.

Careful, so careful it almost hurts more than if he wasn’t. He starts by separating a tangled section near the back, working slowly to loosen it without pulling. His fingers move with quiet precision, undoing the small knots left behind from the fight.

His fingers move lower, unbraiding one of the looser plaits completely before starting again—smoother this time, tighter, cleaner. He weaves each strand with practiced care, thumbs brushing lightly against your scalp as he works.

“At least she will serve under me…” you mutter. 

He shakes his head, but the smile on his face betrays him completely.  “You hit her hard.”

“Yes,”

“She pulled your hair.”

“Yes, Neteyam. I was there.” 

He huffs a quiet laugh behind you, fingers still moving through your hair with steady care. “Just making sure I didn’t imagine it,” he murmurs.

You lean back into him slightly, letting your shoulders relax as he finishes one braid and starts another. The gentle pull and weave of his hands grounds you more than anything else has since last night.

For a moment, it’s quiet again. Just the soft sounds of the forest waking up, and his breathing behind you. Then you speak, quieter this time. “She went into our home.”

His hands stop. Not roughly—just still. “What?” His voice drops, low and controlled in a way that makes your ears flick.

You don’t turn around. “My herbs. The day you left for the hunt, they were all over the floor when I got back.” Your fingers curl slightly in your lap. “Nothing else was touched.”

A long silence stretches. You can feel it now—the shift in him. His hands resume, slower this time, finishing the braids with more tension than before. 

“And you are sure it was her?” he asks.

“No,” you answer honestly. “But who else would come into our home, destroy my things, and leave your side untouched?” 

His jaw tightens behind you—you don’t need to see it to know. “A creature?” he teases.

“And what is she?” 

He laughs out loud. “Let me remind you, and maybe myself, that we are future clan leaders,” he quickly regains his composure. “She will answer for that also. Come to bed with me.”

You stand, unstable at first, then taking his hand. He lays on the moss bedding and pulls you over him, holding your hips. 

His hands move over your body, searching, teasing, loving. His lips move over your neck, breathing slow and heavy, hands squeezing wherever they can. 

The moment is peaceful, but quickly fades. Neteyam’s hands pause, his eyes closing, head turning away slightly. 

“What is it?” You ask, eyebrows pinned together.

“Aysea,” he sighs. “I cannot move past this. She came into our home.” 

He looks up at you again, jaw tight, hands still firm on your hips—not rough, but grounded, like he’s holding onto something steady.

“She didn’t just insult you in front of the clan,” he says quietly. “She entered our home. That is not anger, or rivalry. that is intent.”

His hands slide from your hips to your waist, steadying you as he sits up beneath you. His eyes don’t wander this time—they stay fixed, focused.

“That is not something I can ignore,” he continues. “Not as your mate. Not as a future leader.”

Your ears tilt slightly at that tone. This isn’t jealousy. This isn’t hurt. This is responsibility. You study him carefully. “What are you going to do?” you ask.

He exhales slowly through his nose, thinking—not reacting. “I won’t act without proof,” he says first. “If I accuse her without it, she will twist it again. Make you look unstable. Makes me look biased.”

Your jaw tightens slightly. He’s right—and you hate that he’s right.

“But,” he adds, quieter now, “I’m not letting it happen again.” There’s a pause. Then his gaze sharpens just slightly. “I’ll speak to my grandmother again. Not about the fight, just about the pattern.”

Your brows knit faintly. “She already ruled.”

“She ruled on what was seen,” he corrects. “Not what was hidden.”

That lands. His hand lifts, brushing a stray braid away from your face—this time gentler again, but the tension is still there underneath “And I’ll watch”

You tilt your head. “Watch?”

“Yes.” His voice lowers slightly. “She won’t expect it now. Not after being put under you. If she does anything again, we’ll have more proof. Not just words.”

Your tail flicks once, thoughtful. “And until then?”

“Until then,” he hesitates just briefly, then steadies again, “you won’t face her alone.”

That earns a small reaction from you. “Neteyam—”

“No. Not because you can’t handle her. I know you can.” His thumb presses lightly against your waist. “But because you shouldn’t have to.” That softens something in your chest.

The silence that follows isn’t tense anymore—it’s heavy, but aligned. Like you’re standing on the same side of something.

You shift slightly, settling more comfortably against him. “You’re taking this very seriously,” you murmur.

His expression doesn’t change much—but his grip does, just a little tighter. “She crossed into our home,” he says again, quieter now. “It is a boundary.”

You nod slowly. You feel it too now—not just anger, not just hurt, something deeper. A line that was crossed. “Okay,” you say softly. “Yes.” 

The night passes slowly, you and Neteyam lay tangled together, his leg still over yours.

Dawn comes quietly, you slip from his arms and into the forest as swiftly as ever. The forest is quieter this time of day. Not empty—never empty—but softer. The kind of quiet that lets you think too much if you’re not careful.

Your hands move automatically as you gather—sorting leaves, checking stems, tying small bundles with practiced ease. The work should ground you. But it does not. 

Your constant unease lingers; in a few days, Aysea will be following your orders, but at what cost? Nobody knows that she destroyed your herbs—and in the midst of everything, the fight, the hunts and battles, Mo’at has forgotten that you owe her those medicinal herbs.

Your ikran is perched beside you as you gather water pods, ar’lek seeds, and the healing rose. Hours of gathering lead to these beautiful discoveries, a moment of peace, just you and the forest, breathing as one. 

The walk back to the village is longer than it should be, legs heavier than ever, you truly miss the thrill of patrolling, but who said you can’t be both, warrior and healer? 

You’re still holding the woven basket when you hear your name, not spoken gently, not the way Neteyam says it.

You stop before the clearing fully opens, instincts tightening in your chest. Quietly, you slip behind the wide trunk of a tree, the rough bark biting into your shoulder as you steady your breathing.

“she doesn’t even see it,” Aysea’s voice floats through the leaves, light, amused, venom thinly veiled as laughter.

You freeze, you don’t mean to listen. But then she says his name and you can’t move. Through the gaps in the leaves, you see her circling him slowly, deliberately. Neteyam stands still, shoulders squared, eyes steady on her. He doesn’t interrupt.

“She carries too much here,” Aysea says, her hands gesturing—then settling boldly at her own hips, mimicking you. “It throws her off. Slows her down.”

Your grip tightens on the basket. Neteyam doesn’t flinch, your chest aches. Aysea steps closer, softer now, but sharper for it. “You are the future of the clan,” she says. “You need someone who can stand beside you without… breaking.”

A small laugh, cruel in its lightness. “And she is not stable.”

You press back into the tree, like it could swallow you whole.

“She tries,” Aysea continues, almost pitying. “But everyone sees it. The way she clings to you.”

A pause. Then her voice continues, softer, flirting. “You don’t have to pretend anymore.”

Your breath catches. “I know you feel responsible for her,” Aysea goes on. “But that is not love.”

Silence follows and you wait, wait for him to say something—anything. And he does. “I do love her,” he says, low but firm, deliberate, cutting through the forest sounds. “Every part of her. I do not pretend. And no one else will tell me otherwise.”

You blink softly, a hint of a smile creeping in; but despite neteyam’s words, you realize that you really haven’t noticed the difference between your body and the average Na’vi. Then again, your hips are only a fraction wider. 

“I have never pretended, Aysea. Not once.” The light amusement in her voice falters.

“Her hips, her mind… you think she is weak? You are blind,” he continues, voice carrying through the trees, unwavering. “And I will not listen to you try to turn her against herself—or me. Y/n is beautiful, fierce in her training. She is stronger than most warriors in the clan.”

Aysea hesitates. Your chest rises and falls, relief and lingering ache tangled together. He steps back, calm but resolute, standing taller than before.

you leave before you can hear any more.

By the time you reach the hut, your face is calm, way too calm.

You start emptying the basket, laying the gathered roots, herbs, and small fruits neatly on the floor, methodical, silent. Each movement is careful, almost ceremonial, as if by occupying your hands so you can ground the storm inside you.

The woven flap shifts suddenly. Neteyam bursts in, just returning from his preparations in the forest. He moves quickly, grabbing a spear and a handful of arrows, checking the bindings and muttering under his breath.

“Back already, my love?” he asks casually, still hurried, eyes only briefly catching yours.

You nod, silent. He doesn’t linger. He doesn’t see the tension in your shoulders. Doesn’t notice the quiet you wear like armor. Doesn’t ask.

Before he slips back toward the flap, he pauses. Quick, almost distracted.

He bends, pressing a brief, warm kiss to your lips, lingering only a heartbeat. You taste the faint scent of him—the forest, sweat, smoke—and it makes your chest ache.

Then he’s gone. The flap sways behind him. The hut is still. And you’re left alone with the echo of his presence, the memory of his voice defending you, and the heaviness of Aysea’s words you tried so hard to shake off.

Hours pass as you organize your herbs and fruits carefully, storing them away in separate baskets. 

You finally stand, adjusting your clothing, glancing down at your figure. Your hands fiddle with the ties at your loincloth, removing it slowly, sliding into your casual skirt woven for sleep.

You finish tying your skirt tighter than usual, pulling it higher over your hips, trying to smooth the fabric so it sits “neater,” more controlled. Your hands linger for a moment too long, messing with the ties, as if the act itself could make everything feel lighter.

The hut smells faintly of firewood and herbs. You set down the last of your things, letting them fall to the woven mat, then slip into you and Neteyam’s shared hammock, hung over the soft, moss bedding beneath it. 

On your side, facing away from the flap, you pull the woven covers Jake gifted you and Neteyam around you like a shield, careful not to invite any closeness.

You clutch the blanket tightly, needing something to hold—missing your mate. 

The door flap shifts suddenly. Soft, hurried footsteps. A familiar presence settles behind you, and you feel the weight of him leaning close, pressing warmth against your back.

Neteyam exhales, tired but carrying a tension you can feel even in the small space between you. His lips find the back of your neck, soft at first, wet and warm, brushing over the sensitive skin. Almost rough, testing. You tense and shift slightly, drawing away, but not enough to push him entirely off.

He pauses for a moment, eyebrows pinning together slightly, then he slowly rests his hands on your hips.

You jerk away more sharply, too abrupt to ignore this time. He sits up slightly, exhaling, the warmth behind you gone. “What’s wrong?” His voice is low, edged with fatigue and concern, not anger.

You press your cheek into the hammock, hiding your face. “Just tired,” you whisper, small and unconvincing.

His hand lingers at your hip, hesitant, patient, waiting for a signal. But when you shift again, subtle but definite he finally sits up fully, voice firm but calm. “Look at me,” he says.

You turn over your shoulder,  just enough to meet his gaze, and the intensity in his eyes makes your chest tighten. “…Why are you moving away from me?”

“I’m not,” you whisper, but the words feel hollow even to you.

His jaw tightens, and he leans closer, voice quieter but firm. “Is it her?” He unclips his shoulder strapped harness, movements careful, eyes never leaving you. 

Your stomach drops. “I heard her,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper, “in the forest. You. Aysea. Everything.”

He closes his eyes briefly, jaw tightening, then exhales, shaking his head. “And you believed her?”

You look down. “I don’t know. I do look a little different, don't I? Maybe it’s too much-“ 

“No,” he says, tone low but steady, moving a hand lightly to your shoulder instead of your hip. “You’re not ‘too much.’ You’re not weak. You’re not unstable. You’re exactly what I chose.” 

You swallow, heat rising, and your body relaxes slightly. He leans forward, brushing your hair back gently, letting his lips hover near your temple—but not pressing.

“Don’t let her words make you doubt yourself,” he murmurs. “…Not for a second. Not for me.”

The room is quiet except for your breath and his. You feel the tension in your shoulders start to ease, just a little.

“Is that why you are wearing this skirt like this?” He murmurs, “so tight.” 

Heat floods your face, moving quickly to loosen the wrap. “No.” 

“Yes it is,” he drags his words, laying beside you again, hand moving to rest at your hips once more. “Is this good?”

“Yes,” you sigh, leaning into him. 

You shift suddenly onto your back, hands holding his. “Do you know what I miss?” 

Neteyam’s hand rests warm at your waist, his thumb tracing slow, absent circles against your skin as the quiet settles between you again.

He leans in, slower this time—no urgency, no tension, just closeness. His lips brush along your jaw, then your cheek, lingering there. Soft.

“Tell me,” he murmurs against your skin, voice low, “what do you miss baby?”

Your breath catches slightly—not from the question, but from the way he asks it. Like he’s trying to understand you, not fix you.

For a moment, you don’t answer. Your fingers curl lightly in his as your thoughts settle.

His nose nudges gently along your cheek, almost impatient now, but still tender. “Mm?” he presses, quieter. “What is it?”

You exhale softly. “I miss the raids and stuff, I feel like we haven’t been out there together since my injury.” 

“Patrol?” He repeats against your cheek. Hand now still over your waist.

You nod faintly, your temple resting against him. “The forest,” you murmur. “Moving. Tracking. Not thinking so much, just fighting.”

His hand resumes its slow movement again, more thoughtful now.

“I miss feeling sharp,” you add quietly. “Like I’m part of something out there. Not just waiting here, and sorting herbs. I want to be tsahik someday, I am proud to be tsakarem, I relish it, even… but I love the fight.”

Neteyam pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you. His expression isn’t surprised anymore—just focused. Understanding. “That’s what’s been sitting in your head?” he asks.

You nod. “Yes.”

A faint breath leaves him, something softer easing into his features. “All of this… and you miss patrol.”

You nudge him lightly. “It matters.”

“I know,” he says immediately, brushing his thumb along your cheek now. “I know it does.”

Your eyes flutter briefly, Neteyam’s thumb pauses for a moment. “Tired?”

“Yes.” 

“How about you come with me tomorrow?”

Your head turns toward him, your lips curl into a smile. “Where?” 

“Patrol, baby…duh.”

“What is duh?” 

He laughs softly, “nothing important. Come with us tomorrow.” 

“Really?”

“Yes. You are cleared, you are strong. You deserve to fight, not just stay here.” His thumb brushes your lips, parting them subtly. “We can start with a small stealth. Work your way up…”

“I love you.” You whisper, your own hand catching his wrist, kissing his knuckles.

“I love you,” he says with the utmost care. 

Dawn comes quietly, a thin veil of mist clings to the forest ground, glowing faintly gold as the first light of Eywa filters through the canopy. The world feels still… watchful. 

Until Jake breaks it, “this isn’t a large strike.” he says, voice low but firm as he stands before the gathered warriors. “move fast. quiet. don’t give them time to react.”

Around him, warriors listene, older ones steady and experienced. And then—the younger ones. They gather just behind, a little less still, a little more charged with energy they try to hide.

Neteyam stands at the front, shoulders squared, chin lifted slightly. Every bit the leader. You stand beside him. Not a single step behind.

Jake’s eyes flick between the two of you. He doesn’t smile. “Stay sharp,” he says. “They won’t hesitate.”

Neteyam nods. “We won’t either.”

The forest closes around you as you move. Everything is fluid—silent leaps, careful steps, bodies weaving through roots and shadows. The younger hunters follow your signals, spreading out just enough.

You move beside Neteyam, senses open, listening, watching, until something feels off. A creature's cry cuts short. Your body reacts before your mind does. You slow. Neteyam notices instantly, his hand lifts, hold. 

Everyone freezes, silence stretches and then gunfire rips through the air. AMP suits crash through the trees, metal limbs tearing branches apart. The ground shakes with every step.

“Scatter!” Neteyam calls.

It is too late. The attack is already on top of you but you move anyway. Your arrow flies—strikes a visor. A soldier drops.

Around you, the younger hunters fight, fast and sharp, but the amp suits push forward, relentless. Neteyam sees one turn, locking onto the smaller hunters.

He moves, fast. He grabs one, shoves her aside as the AMP fires. The blast scorches the ground. “Move!” he snaps, pulling another out of danger.

The AMP shifts, targets him. You see it. Neteyam fires, once, twice. aiming for the joints. sparks burst where one arrow hits, but the machine doesn’t stop.

It keeps coming, closing the distance.

Neteyam steps back, his foot hits loose earth and he slips. He falls hard, bow skidding away. The amp looms over him, raising its weapon, barrel lowering with cold precision.

Locked, there is almost no time. You’re already moving.

You drop over him in one, controlled motion—crouching low across Neteyam’s torso, your body covering him completely. Your back faces him, hips hovering just slightly over his face. shielding him, while you face the amp head-on.

Neteyam stills beneath you, breath catching at the sudden weight, the closeness, the instinctive way you cover him.

The amp, the human inside adjusts. Now aiming at you. Slowly, you lower yourself further over him, coiling tighter, making yourself an unbreakable shield.

Your hiss is low, animalistic, sharp and feral. The sound cuts through the chaos. The human hesitates for just one moment. 

“I’m good—” Neteyam starts beneath you, trying to push up, hands careful against your thighs. Your arm shoots back, pressing firmly against him.

“Stay down.” you order, hand flying back up to point your weapon. You don’t look at him. You don’t look away from the machine. The big suit raises its weapon, you explode upward. 

You launch from your crouch straight at it, slamming into the weapon arm. The shot fires wide, blasting the ground. You climb instantly. 

Hands grip. Feet find holds. You move fast, relentlessly. Your fist slams into the visor several times until it fractures slightly. 

The pilot jerks inside, panic setting in. The suit stumbles, slamming into a tree—you don’t let go. Another slam of your fist causes the shatter. Glass bursts inward.

The suit staggers, systems glitching—then crashes to the ground beneath you. You land with it, but you’re not finished.

You climb onto the fallen machine slowly now deliberately slow. The human inside struggles, fumbling to free himself. You crawl over the metal toward him.

Slow, measured, and terrifying to any human. Your fingers drag across the steel as you move. Your breathing is uneven, sharp. Your eyes never leave him.

He sees your face, your rage. for everything they have taken from you flashes before your own eyes. 

“Wait, please!” 

You do not understand, and you do not stop. Your hand shoots forward, gripping his harness. You drag him halfway out of the cockpit with brutal force.

He struggles, but you do not care. Nothing he does matters. You pull him closer, throat tearing with weak snarls. Face to face. 

You hit him, again and again. Each strike is heavier than the last. Blood sprays at your face. He goes still. You don’t—at least, not right away. It takes one last punch before your body slows, your fist finally stopping.

Your breathing fills the space around you. The battle fades at the edges. Behind you, Neteyam pushes himself up, eyes locked on you.

You stay where you are for a moment longer, shoulders rising and falling. Then you turn your head slightly, just enough to look at him.

He moves then, waist pressed tightly against your back, holding you tight, two arms careful around your neck. “I see you.” 

You squeeze his arm just as tight, almost unable to speak. The rage is still there. It is not the only thing though, he is there, and you are too. 

You breathe together for a moment, then he takes your hands, brushing his thumb over your knuckles, your hands stained with blood. “Are you hurt?”

You reply with only the shake of your head, catching your breath and turning to face him, you check his body for any injuries as well, there is a cut at Neteyam’s ankle and a deep slash at his torso. 

Your fingers tighten in his arms, nails squeezing deep crescents in his thick, muscular biceps. “I will treat these once we get back.” 

“You okay?” He whispers.

“Yes. Where are the others?”

“Scattered. I told you to stay with them.” 

“You were in danger.” 

“We were all in danger, my love.”

Your head tilts slightly to the side, eyes searching. his. “We will find them.” 

And you do, not too long after, the group is huddled together, perched against a tree. “Can you all walk?” you inquire, crouching down beside them.

One by one, you check them. Hands steady now, voice calmer than the storm still echoing in your chest. A cut here. Bruising there. Nothing fatal. Nothing you can’t handle.

One of the younger ones winces as she stands, but she straightens under your gaze, determined. You give a small approving nod—it’s enough.

Neteyam steps in beside you then, quieter now, but fully back in himself. His hand brushes briefly against your lower back—not for show, not even fully conscious. Just there.

“Stay close. Nobody breaks formation.” He says. 

The walk back is different, there is no teasing energy between the younger hunters. The forest feels heavier now—like it saw everything and is still deciding what to do with it.

A few of them glance at you when they think you won’t notice. Not with fear exactly—but something close. 

They saw you, not just as tsakarem, not just as Neteyam’s mate, not just as a warrior. But as something else entirely.

Neteyam notices it too, of course he does. His eyes flick toward you more than once during the walk—not checking for wounds. Just checking you.

Measuring the quiet, the way your shoulders sit, the way your hands don’t quite relax. 

When the village outline appears and you step in, the elders' eyes go straight to you, Jake’s own eyes find you, and so do Neytiris. 

Tuk gasps softly from where she is, hopping to you, checking you. Neytiri greets you briskly before assessing Neteyam. 

“My son, who did this?” 

“We were attacked by sky people. a small group, but enough to cause damage. amps attacked. we defended what is ours.” 

“Good,” Jake says, patting his sons back, watching you nod and quickly leave to tend to the wounded. “She should patch this up for you. This is bad. Grandmas gathering.. won’t be back till later.”

“mmh,” Neteyam groans, nodding a little too fast, his body scorching hot.

The scent of herbs fills the area as you lather medicinal paste onto the hunters’ arms. They weren’t too hurt, so it is quick, just paste and bandaging, again and again. 

“Baby, are you done?” Neteyam says from behind you, his fingers curl around your arm, needing something to grasp.

“Yes. Come now.” You take his arm and practically drag him to your hut, careful hands skimming his cuts, stopping at the particularly deep one at his torso “You did not tell me it was this bad. I would have treated you first.”

“You couldn’t see it?” 

Your lips tighten, ears flattening. “I’m sorry.” 

“No, no, it’s okay…just treat it. please.” 

Your hands work from memory, years of training quickening your muscles. Neteyam winces a couple of times, hands catching your wrists weakly, body jerking just slightly, never pulling you away.

“Shh, mawey, ma teyam.” You wrap tight herbs over the deep gash as carefully as possible. 

On the double, Neteyam stands. You rise after him, trying to maneuver past his broad shoulders, fingertips carefully nudging his shoulder. “You should sit, you need to heal.” 

“Come with me..”

You hesitate for a moment, gathering the equipment you had used for healing. “where?”

He takes your hands, thumb brushing over your bloodied knuckles. “you will see.” 

Your tail sways slowly as he begins moving toward the doorway, you are quiet most of the way there, occasionally squeezing his hand—feeling, reminding yourself that he is still here.

Neteyam leads you to a secluded ravine, private, mossy, beautiful in the canvas of the afternoon sunlight.

You release him before he can lead you any further, making your way into the water first. It is cold against your thighs, your loincloth clings to your hips like a second skin. adhering to your body. 

Neteyam comes up from behind you, wrapping his hands around your waist, slowly moving upward, thumbs leafing the slightly curved underline of your breasts. “May I?” He whispers, close. You can hear the smile on his face. 

“Yes.” You say.

His fingers work carefully to untie the wrap around your chest, fingertips skimming your skin for a moment before he pulls back, your breasts come free now, he goes deeper to stand in front of you, moving your chin to face him.

He carefully brushes his fingers over the dry blood of the human splattered across your face and body, bending to take water in his hands and let it fall gently over your skin. 

The water shifts softly around you as Neteyam’s body moves and settles closer behind yours. His hands rest along your ribs, fingers spread just above your chest. The other stays at your waist, his breath ghosts along your neck.

Then his lips brush your shoulder, leaving soft, open mouthed kisses there. 

“Neteyam…” you sigh, head falling back onto his shoulder. 

His hands move over your bare upper body, never stopping, just exploring. Your own hand lifts, covering his slightly. 

Your head tilts, giving him more access. 

Loud, unmistakable footsteps sound from across the ravine, “Bro- Neteyam!” The voice echoes down into the water.

Neteyam freezes behind you, his grip tightening just slightly before going completely still. Another voice, older, still familiar echoes, “Lo’ak, I said he was probably-“

At the edge of the ravine, Jake and Lo’ak stand wide eyed and slightly appalled. They both lean far enough to see everything.

You move almost immediately , grabbing neteyam’s wrist and pulling his hand away from your chest, turning slightly so your back and shoulders cover more of you. 

“Lo’ak. Dad…” Neteyam murmurs.

“okay! I can explain. I brought him but i didn’t know. You know?” Lo’ak stammers. “Sorry bro, i just wanted to make sure you were good cause they said you guys were attacked and you know..”

Jake is still staring, not shocked or angry, processing, maybe. Neteyam closes his eyes briefly like he’s asking Eywa for strength. “Dad,” he says carefully, “you need to leave.”

“Yes, that's fair.” Jake says. “Be careful.” he throws in. 

“We should go.” Lo’ak leans slightly toward him. 

Your ears flatten. “Why are they not going?” 

“I don’t know.” Neteyam mutters. 

Jake clears his throat, because he is, unfortunately, still a father. his eyes flick between the two of you, taking in the very obvious situation. “You’re busy.”

“No, we’re not. We were just gonna leave.” 

“Right.”

You cover your face, Lo’ak is visibly holding back laughter. Jake grabs his arm. “Move.”

“I am moving bro!”

“Don’t bro me. You’re too grown for that.”  Jake shakes his head, muttering the last part. They disappear from the edge of the ravine, voices fading. 

Neteyam doesn’t move at first, then he breaths, turning his head just enough to see you. He drops his head on your shoulder. “I am never coming back here again.”

You let out a soft laugh, hands still covering your face for a moment before dropping. “You say that now,” 

“I mean it.” He insists, lifting his head-but the faint smile tugging at his mouth betrays him. “I love everything you do, but I don’t want you putting yourself in danger for me anymore.” His arms snake around your waist again, careful and smooth. 

“You were about to be shot.” 

“And you stood over me like nothing could touch you,” he replies, eyes narrowing just slightly.

You glance away, shoulders tensing. “I thought I’d lose you. I wasn’t thinking.” 

“I know, that is what worries me.” His knuckles brush gently against the tight-soft shape of your jaw, softening the weight of his words. “No more fighting today, we will rest. I can prepare a meal when we get home, yes, ma yawnetu?” 

“Yes.” You nod. 

The two of you finish washing in quieter motions. No rush now, no urgency. Just the soft sound of water and breath. When you step out of the ravine, the air feels cooler against your skin. 

You can see Neteyam wringing his loincloth from your peripheral, his eyes focused and hands straining the thick, wet cloth.

You make your way towards the rock where he left your top, fingers brushing tall, overgrown thickets. You tie the top slowly. 

Behind you, the faint sound of water and fabric shifts to something softer. Just Neteyam’s steady footsteps approaching from behind, holding your wrist, careful. 

“Come,” he says gently. “Let’s go home.” 

Your hands stay linked the entire way back, and when you arrive, villagers watch you curiously. The word always gets out, everybody knows about the way you’d “lost control” only their eyes are not judgmental, or questioning, they are understanding.

Neteyam ignores it, and so do you. He does not stop walking, occasionally squeezing your soft, slightly calloused hands.

Inside your hut, the air is still warm. Neteyam leans over the fire, already roasting meat and spreading seasoning made from crushed herbs over the succulent flesh. 

His hands reach for the provisions in your baskets next, pulling from them some seeds and teylu. 

You watch silently, not entirely sure what to do, so you just kneel beside him and watch. 

“Don’t get too close to the fire,” he murmurs. “What kind of drink would you like? swoa or just water?”

“Swoa,” you smile. “Do not add too many spices. I do not want to be rou all night.” 

“Then I will have the same.” 

You nod gently, taking the ingredients and mixing them, the liquid thickens slowly under your fingers, the scent of crushed herbs rising warm and familiar between you.

You finish mixing the swoa, careful not to over-spice it, and hand one to him. Your fingers brush briefly, he smiles. 

He takes a sip, eyes flicking to you over the rim. “It’s good, baby.”

“I know,” you murmur, taking your own.

The sound of the fire is all you can hear now, a comforting silence drifting around it. “I am not scared of you. I hope you know that.” He says suddenly.

“Good.” You say, too fast.

“Yes, I see your anger and I feel your pain.”

Silence stretches long and deep. “I love you” You say. 

“I love you.” He murmurs, pressing his forehead briefly to yours. 

Your fingers rise to brush over his cheeks, skimming his scars, lips, even his eyes. “I see you.” 

His smile grows. Hours of small talk and eating pass until you finally decide to settle, Neteyam holds you all through the night, very often, unconsciously rubbing his hands over your body. 

Dawn comes sharper the next day, the platform is already set when you arrive, clean, open, visible to the clan—deliberatey so. 

Two warriors stand at the edge, exactly as ordered by Neteyam, Jake, and Mo’at. Today is the day which Aysea will begin to work under you; following your orders, recollecting and reorganizing your herbs. 

She is late, most likely on purpose. You step onto the platform without rushing, setting down your equipment, waiting. 

It is then that she arrives, feet padding hard against the ground, arms crossed around her chest, face bitter and plain. 

“You’re late,” you say calmly. 

Her jaw tightens. “I was here before, you came too late.” 

“Then you should look less impatient.” You gesture toward the laid-out bundles behind you. “Sort these.”

She does not move at first, testing you. The warriors shift slightly on their feet, offering a half glance to one another. 

Aysea’s gaze flicks to them, to you, then to the herbs. she grumbles, low and guttural before kneeling. 

Her hands begin sorting herbs—less practiced than yours, slightly rougher. You watch for a moment, then step closer.

“No,” you say, reaching down and correcting her grip. “You will bruise the stems.”

“Then show me properly, Tsakarem.” She mocks. 

You hold her gaze, then you take her wrist, firm and controlled, guiding her movements. “Gentle, or you waste them.” 

“You care a lot about plants.” She rolls her eyes. 

“I care about the people. The herbs are vital.” 

“Strange,” she continues lightly, “for someone who enjoys fighting so much.”

You release her wrist. “You will speak when spoken to.” 

She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. You do not make the passing time easy, sorting herbs, grinding roots, carrying water, rebinding old mixtures. Each task is repetitive. 

Aysea, ignorant in all of her senses, does the tasks, but not quietly. She takes too long, lets leaves fall, and breathes out in faint, exaggerated sighs.

“You messed that one up.” She points to a bundle which you had already tied up. 

“No,” you reply. 

“Yes. It is uneven.” 

You raise an eyebrow, reaching for the bundle, you examine it, then you drop it. “Redo it.”  

She only stares at you for a second. “You are lucky that the warriors are standing there.” 

You hum quietly, watching her work, then the sharp sound of a twig breaking sounds over the platform. Neteyam stands behind—watching you. 

You offer a small smile, “excuse me,” you murmur, stepping aside and approaching your mate. You place a soft kiss on his cheek, fingers curled against his chest. 

He turns his head to catch your lips in a gentle kiss, hands squeezing your shoulders. “Be ready soon. I am taking you out tonight.” 

waving your fingers briefly before focusing on Aysea. You spend the entire afternoon hovering over her work. Correcting, nudging. every little misstep reminding you how much you carry. 

By the time the sun begins its descent, painting the mountains in gold and crimson, your thoughts are only half on duty, the other half. every beat of your heart, waits for Neteyam. 

He is there at the cliff's edge when you arrive. His ikran’s wings catch the last light. You yip loudly for your girl, leaping onto her when she comes. 

You and Neteyam fly peacefully toward your usual date area, an alcove amongst mountains, high in the sky with a beautiful view of the forest below. 

You arrive shortly, landing gracefully. Neteyam’s first instinct is to tease you, to tug at your tail and run after you until you fall into the woven bedding. 

He kneels right beside you, panting slightly, hair swinging back and forth as he laughs. “I have waited all day for this.” He murmurs. 

“Mm, me too.” You say. 

Neteyam’s fingers brush yours, his breath calming down, eyes shuddering. “My love, there is something I need to tell you..” he whispers.

“What is it?” You ask, trying to keep your voice steady, though your pulse is already racing.  

“There’s a mission. Tonight, I was chosen and I am unsure how long it will take. It is far from here.”

Your stomach twists immediately, fingers tightening in his. “No- let me go with you. I must go, I must fight.”

“No.” He says firmly, not unkind, just making sure his point gets across. His hands cup your face. “You can’t. You and my grandmother- right now, you’re needed here. The clan needs you both as a healing pair.”

You want to argue, to insist, but his eyes—so earnest and steady, make you stop. You exhale, letting the tension ease just slightly. “So you go? And I will stay..how long will we be apart?” 

“I don’t know. But when I come back, I will come back to you.” He presses his forehead to yours.

“The sky people’s greed sickens me, they are always after something. I can never be just.” You cry.

His hand slides down your back, pulling you closer. “No, no, no.. it will be okay. We will come back to each other, I promise.” He smiles, pulling one straight out of you. 

You pull him closer now, “let us not waste the time we still have.” You whisper against his ear, sliding onto his lap, rubbing against his cheek gently. 

Neteyam’s breath stutters, but then he tilts your chin gently, his lips finding yours, slow at first before hunger grows. 

Hands find your waist as he shifts beneath you, tongue brushing your lower lip with tentative fervor. Slowly, his tail coils around your thigh, holding you in place as warmth grows between you.

Your fingers ride up and down his body, tracing every contour, memorizing the heat of his skin. He shudders under your touch, but suddenly, a distant drumming echoes through the quiet night, signaling all warriors. 

That signal is not right. Neteyam pushes back, tense and aware. “Hold on,” he mutters to you, thumb lingering on your bottom lip. 

You whimper at the loss of contact. There is never an instance in which you have Neteyam all to yourself, and when you finally think you do.. something ruins it. 

“Shh,” he encourages, standing slowly. 

Your eyebrows furrow slightly and you stand too, “who do you think you are shushing?” You whisper. harshly. 

“Not the time baby.” 

Neteyam’s comm beeps just then, Jake’s voice a static before cutting through. “Neteyam, boy.. something is reported near your area.” Jake’s voice cracks slightly. “Could be sky people. Stay alert.”

Your heart hammers in your ribs, “we can handle it.” You say, though fear coils tight in  your stomach. 

“I won’t risk you.” Neteyam snaps. “Let’s go, now.” 

You stumble slightly as you make your way towards your ikran, still clutching Neetyam's arm. A sharp whistle cuts through the air, something slices past, narrowly missing the edge of the alcove. 

You leap onto your girl as fast as possible, flanking Neteyam, a knife in your hand. The sound of splintering wood makes your heart drop. 

Below, the forest becomes a blur of shadow and color.  Above, the stars peek through clouds, indifferent to the danger. Another object streaks past. 

“Stay low!” Neteyam yells.

For a heartbeat, you catch his gaze. A look full of promise. Your grip on your ikran’s saddle tightens, muscles flexing. 

And as she banks again, you realize that neither you nor Neteyam knows just how close it came.

taglist no one asked for: @sango-komii @finshythgurl @deeloveswriting @julietelysythe @yung7lisya @miksxz @lesbosaur1

i totally believe this could do better than it did the last time i posted it 🫩 i still thank all of my readers and i love you all so much

[fireflynavi]

Cup Half Full

✧ Jake Sully x Family x Female Reader | word count: 800

pov: Jake introduces you and the kids to ‘coffee’ ♡

written for Pandora in Bloom event by @junebugonjupiter 🐚 🌊 🐚 🌊

prompt 1: being introduced to human coffee ☕️

“Incoming!”

Jake dropped the RDA crate with a thump at the entrance of the marui, making you startle. He had a boyish grin plastered across his face and seemed particularly pleased with himself.

You rolled your eyes as you sat chopping mauti (fruit) near the bubbling pot of water next to the fire. “Whatever have you brought back now, ma Jake?”

“Just supplies baby. Managed to get my hands on some good stuff this time,” he said, offloading his gear against the wall. He crouched in front of the crate, popping the buckles and rummaging around inside.

You eyed him over your shoulder in curiosity.

“Oh-hoho, y’beauty,” he chuckled as he pulled a particular packet out, lifting it up into the air.

Your curiosity deepened and you swivelled to him with a cocked eyebrow as he made his way over, settling himself onto the box next to you by the fire. He took a cup, ripping the sachet open with his teeth and poured in some kind of dark powder.

“What is it?” you asked as you watched him take a ladle from the pot and fill the cup half full, hot water swirling with the powder to create a steaming black liquid. The smell immediately filled your nose; rich, earthy and warm.

“This is somethin’ from Earth called coffee,” he explained, and the way he cradled the cup in his hands like it was a woodsprite made you wonder if he’d gone insane. He brought his nose to the edge of the steaming cup and inhaled with his eyes closed. “Haven’t had this in forever.”

“Cough-ee,” you wrinkled your nose at the foreign word and Jake laughed.

He brought the cup to his lips and sipped. “Yeah, that’s the stuff,” he sighed loudly, head tilting back like he was in heaven. You couldn’t help but grin at his bliss.

“Let me try,” you demanded as you took the cup from his hands, needing to know what the rage was all about. The smell swirled under your nose like pungent smoke mixed with cocoa. You sipped cautiously, your nose immediately screwing back up. You wiped it from your lips and Jake laughed.

“What is that?” you shuddered in disgust.

“Good enough that you’re going back for more,” he smirked and you realised you were in fact taking another sip.

“Mm,” you felt the warmth spreading through you like a comfort. “I kind of like it but hate it. It is weird.”

At that moment Lo’ak, Kiri and Tuk turned up in a tumble of chatter and arguments.

“Hey Lo’ak, c’mere,” Jake beckoned him over. “Try this. Makes you strong,” he held up his arm, flexing his bicep while he offered him the cup with his other hand.

Lo’ak glanced at the black drink suspiciously like Jake was offering him poison. “What is it?”

“It’s called coffee, try it.” You saw the mischief dancing in Jake’s eyes and you slapped him on the shoulder, covering your mouth to try to stop your laughter escaping at his cruelty.

Lo’ak being Lo’ak didn’t need much encouragement, seeing it as a challenge, and swiftly took a large gulp from the cup. He spat it out immediately, spraying coffee everywhere as his face contorted in disgust. “Dad, what is this vile stuff?!” he swiped at his tongue, shoving the cup back at Jake.

Kiri giggled and you and Jake almost rolled backwards off your box with laughter.

“I wanna try, I wanna try!” Tuk exclaimed jumping up and down at Jake’s leg, reaching for the cup.

“No no, not for you babygirl. Perhaps when you’re older, hey?” he stroked her hair and she stuck her tongue out at him.

“Right, everyone out, I need space to cook,” you stood up, clapping your hands as the children scurried out of the marui laughing, Lo’ak declaring that he needed to go and drink some sea water to replace the nasty taste.

You leant down to Jake, taking the coffee from him mid sip. “I’ll take that.”

He smirked and brought his hand to your cheek before you could stand back up, pulling you down to meet his lips. He tasted of the aromatic drink, velvety and bitter, and you smiled against him.

“Glad you like it, baby. Now I can take you on coffee dates."

“Sounds so romantic, ma yawntu (my love). Now get out of here and go play with your kids,” you nodded your head to the door and he chuckled, slapping his thighs as he stood to leave you in peace.

He turned to glance at you once more, catching you swigging back the last of the coffee and licking your lips.

✧ Thank you so much for reading! I'm a huge coffee lover so this was a lot of fun to write! ✧

[rynwrites4fun]

Helping Hand | Jack Abbot x Reader

Jack Abbot x F! Single Mother Reader

Summary: On your first flight with your six month old daughter, you struggle to get her to settle. That is until the man seated beside you, Jack Abbott, steps in to help.

Words: 4633

Warning: Unspecified Age Gap

Author's Note: I don't know I just felt the need to write a jack abbot with a baby. That's it lol. Enjoy - Ryn

Part 2

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’d like to invite our active-duty military members, families traveling with small children, and anyone needing extra time to board at this time,” the gate agent announces over the speaker.

You stand, adjusting your grip on the stroller handle that your six month old daughter sits in. A tight knot of nerves sitting in your chest. It’s your first time flying with her and the weight of it presses in from every direction.

Your backpack is slung over one shoulder, the diaper bag over the other, straps digging in as you move forward in line.

The agent scans your ticket with a soft beep, offering a quick smile before waving you through. You make your way down the jet bridge, the hum of the airport fading behind you. At the end, a crew member steps forward.

“I’ve got the stroller for you,” they say gently.

You nod, carefully lifting your daughter out. You hold her close against your chest while they collapse the stroller with practiced ease. For a second, you just stand there, shifting her weight, readjusting everything, already feeling like you’re juggling too much.

Then you step onto the plane.

“Hi there!” a flight attendant greets warmly, their attention immediately drawn to your daughter. “Oh my goodness, she is adorable.”

You manage a small smile, murmuring a thank you as they coo at her. The warmth helps just a little, softening the sharp edge of your nerves.

“Let me help you,” another attendant offers, guiding you down the aisle.

They lift your backpack into the overhead bin while you carefully maneuver into your row. Window seat. You ease down into it, exhaling as you finally settle.

The diaper bag slides under the seat in front of you. You shift your daughter in your arms, reaching in to grab a teething toy, pressing it gently into her tiny hands.

She immediately brings it to her mouth, content little noises bubbling out of her as she chews.

You let out a quiet breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

“Okay… okay,” you murmur softly, more to yourself than to her.

She stays calm, wide eyes taking everything in. You cling to that small victory.

You bounce her lightly on your lap, brushing your fingers over her cheek as she gurgles happily. Around you, passengers begin to file in. Bags thudding into overhead bins. Voices overlapping as the aisle slowly filled.

You keep your focus on her, hoping she’ll stay this content once the plane takes off.

You notice a man pause at your row.

When you glance up, your eyes meet him for a second. You take him in without meaning to. He’s older, handsome in a quiet, steady way. Salt-and-pepper curls, a fitted black shirt stretched over muscular arms with a camo backpack slung over one shoulder.

He offers you a small, polite smile.

You return it before you can think too much about it.

Then he slips the backpack off his shoulder and settles into the aisle seat beside you.

You knew takeoff was coming soon, and you should start settling your daughter now before everything got louder, more overwhelming. 

Reaching into your bag, you pulled out her bottle, the water, and the formula. Before you began mixing, you grabbed a sanitizing wipe and carefully wiped down everything. The tray table, the armrest. Satisfied that the area was clean, you measured and poured the formula, added the water, and gave it a gentle shake until it was ready.

As you focus on quickly mixing the formula, your daughter’s toy slips from her hand and drops to the floor, landing near his boots.

You barely notice, too busy shaking the bottle.

He bends slightly, picking it up. “Might want to hold off on this one,” he says gently. “Floor’s… not the cleanest.”

You glance at him, then the toy, then back at him. “Right- Thank you.”

He gives an easy smile, then holds it out to you. You take the toy from him and set it aside, out of reach, before focusing back on your daughter.

She fusses a little and you quickly finish preparing her bottle. He leans back in his seat, watching quietly. His gaze lingers on you, taking in a young mother traveling alone.

Cradling her gently in your arms, you offer the bottle. She takes it eagerly, settling against you as you hold her. The soft sound of her sucking fills the small space between you.

“How old is she?” The question catches you off guard.

You look up at him, meeting his observant gaze. “Six months,” you reply softly, adjusting her slightly in your arms.

“I should probably apologize now,” you continue, a tired smile tugging at your lips. “It’s her first flight… not sure how she’s going to be. I’m just hoping she sleeps the whole way through.”

He seems to sense your nervousness, the tension and stress radiating off you.

He lets out a slight chuckle. “There’s really no need to apologize. Traveling with little ones… it’s unpredictable. You do what you can, and that’s enough.”

You glance down at your daughter and then back at him. “Yeah… I just… I want it to go smoothly, you know?” 

He nods, eyes gentle. “I get it. It’s a lot, flying alone with a baby. But she seems pretty calm already, so you’re doing something right.”

A small laugh escapes you, the tension easing slightly. “Let’s hope it stays that way.”

“I’m Jack, by the way,” he says, his voice low, almost a murmur.

You return the smile, your voice gentle. “And this is Nora.”

“She’s cute,” he says, eyes soft as he glances down at Nora.

“Thank you,” you reply.

He leans slightly, curiosity in his voice. “So… is your final destination Pittsburgh, or just passing through?”

You shift Nora, “Pittsburgh,” you say softly. “I’m moving in with some family. Trying to… start fresh, I guess.” Your voice softens, more to yourself than him.

He nods, understanding. “Fresh starts… sometimes necessary.”

“What about you?” you ask.

“Pittsburgh’s home,” he says. “I was just out here visiting a buddy of mine.”

You nod, giving a small, polite smile. “That’s nice”

He shrugs, “Yeah… seeing friends, catching up. But honestly, I’m ready to get back to my routine. There’s something about the familiar rhythm of home—it just feels right.”

“Yeah… routines help. They make things feel… manageable,” you say softly.

He nods, leaning back slightly, hands loosely folded. “Exactly. After traveling, after all the noise… It's nice to get back to the predictable. Your own space, your own rhythm.”

“I hope I can find that in Pittsburgh”

He studies you for a moment, then offers a faint reassuring smile. “You will. Change feels strange at first… but eventually, it starts to feel like home.”

Your conversation with Jack drifts into the quiet hum of the engines. It leaves a soft pause between you. 

The middle seat between you is empty. It's just the three of you in the row. Nora in your arms, Jack in his seat. 

Nora finishes her bottle. You set it aside and carefully burp her. You continue to pat her gently, rocking her just enough to keep her drifting toward sleep.

The flight attendants move through the cabin, checking seats and giving the safety demonstration as the plane taxis toward the runway. Dimmed lights cast the cabin in a calm muted glow.  

The engines rumble beneath you as the plane accelerates for takeoff. For a moment, it’s serene. Nora’s tiny body resting against your shoulder, her breathing slow and steady.

Then, with a sudden, startled whimper, she stirs. Her soft cries echo through the dim cabin.

“Shhh…” you murmur, gently patting her back and rocking her slightly, your heart tightening at the sound. But no matter what you do, she doesn’t settle.

The plane evens out, the engines’ hum steady. The flight attendants start their drink and snack service.

Nora’s cries continue cutting through the cabin’s low hum. The person in the seat in front of you turns slightly, shooting a pointed look over their shoulder.

You swallow hard, feeling the weight of judgment and shame. Shifting her against your chest, you whisper softly. You rat, rock, try anything but she only wails louder. Her fists clench, her frustration raw and unmistakable. Every instinct in you aches to calm her, yet for now, she refuses to be soothed.

The flight attendants had finished their drink and snack service and were no longer in the aisles. The seatbelt sign was off. You decide it’s time to walk her around. Carefully, you unbuckle your seatbelt and stand.

Jack looks up from his phone, wired headphones in, watching a movie.

“Sorry, do you mind?” you ask, not meaning to bother him.

“No, not at all,” he says, pausing the movie. He pulls out his headphones, gets up, and steps into the aisle, making room for you to pass.

You walk Nora up and down the aisle, bouncing her as she continues to cry. Passengers shift in their seats. Some offer polite, sympathetic glances, others masking their irritation with tight-lipped expressions.

Back and forth, you pace the aisle for what feels like forever, trying everything to calm her, but nothing works. You know her ears must be hurting from the pressure and the altitude change.

Meanwhile, Jack had been watching you for over an hour, quietly observing your attempts to soothe her. He had even abandoned his movie, unable to focus as he watched your struggle. As you move down the aisle towards the back of the plane, he notices the tears in your eyes. The exhaustion and defeated look etched across your face.

“Come on, Nora…” you mutter, frustration creeping in despite your best efforts.

Without a word, Jack rises from his seat and follows you. You’re a few feet ahead of him, moving almost on autopilot. 

You make it to the empty back galley of the plane. Nora’s cries echo against the walls, and the tightness in your chest finally breaks.

Tears spring to your eyes before you even realize it. Your body shakes with frustration and exhaustion, every instinct screaming to make her stop, to fix it, but you can’t.

You press her close. Your own sobs mingle with hers.

“Can I try?” you hear a voice from behind you.

You turn slowly, your vision blurred with tears, to see Jack standing there, cautious. His eyes hold concern and there’s a gentleness in the way he looks at you. 

“W-what?” your voice cracks. 

“You’ve been at this for over an hour,” he says softly, keeping his tone careful, not demanding. “You need a break. Would it be okay if I tried?” He gestures toward your daughter, who’s still fussing in your arms, her little body wriggling against you

For a split second, hesitation flickers. He’s a stranger, but it’s quickly swallowed by sheer desperation. Your arms feel like they might give out any second, and your daughter’s cries are starting to turn hoarse.

At this point, you were willing to try anything.

“O-okay” you say, voice shaky. You carefully hand her over.

He takes her with surprising ease, one hand supporting her head, the other steady at her back, like he’s done this before.

“Hey there, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice low and warm as he tucks her gently against his chest.

She keeps wailing, face scrunched. Her cries are still sharp and relentless.

“Shhhh. I know, I know,” he murmurs, rocking her slowly, his hands steady despite her wriggling. “It’s okay… it’s okay.”

“I’m gonna walk her up and down the aisle. Is that okay?” he asks gently, looking at you. 

You nod, brushing your own tears away.

“You should sit… take a breath,” he says softly, his voice steady. “Let me try to get her settled for a bit.” 

He shifts slightly, adjusting his hold “I’ve got her. I’ll be careful.” He meets your eyes, and in that quiet look, something settles in you. Somehow, you trust him.

He walks with you back to the row, matching your pace as he guides her gently. He murmurs  softly to calm her. Once you’re seated, he continues down the aisle, pacing back and forth with measured steps. His calm presence slowly easing both your nerves and hers.

You watch Jack move down the aisle, and your chest tightens at the thought that this stranger, this man would step in, just like that.

After a few laps, Nora’s cries soften. She drifts off to sleep, her tiny chest rising and falling. Jack returns, settling carefully into his seat.

“I can keep holding her,” he murmurs, glancing at you. “If that’s okay with you.”

“O-okay” was all you muttered out.

For a brief moment, you imagine it. You imagine someone truly there beside you, sharing the exhaustion, the mess and milestones. Nora’s father isn’t in the picture, and the weight of it all presses hard against your chest. You’ve been holding it down on your own, a single mother in every sense of the word. You’re doing a good job, the best you can. You know you are, but still watching Jack, a quiet ache coils in your heart. It’s not about him, not really. Just the feeling of it. The thought of not being alone.

Is this what it feels like?

“You okay?” Jack asks, his voice gentle as he looks at you. He can still see the shine of tears in your eyes.

You blink, pulling yourself back. You offer a small nod. “Yeah,” you say softly. A small fragile smile tugs at your lips. “It’s just… it’s been me and her.” You glance at Nora in his arms before meeting his eyes again. “So… it’s nice to have a little help…Thank you”

“You don’t have to thank me,” he says softly, his voice gentle. “I don’t mind lending a hand.”

Helping others wasn’t just something Jack did. It was who he was. An act-of-service kind of guy by nature. He’d carried that instinct through the military and into his work as an ER attending physician. He liked being busy, staying occupied, and doing what he could for others. It was in his blood, part of what made him… him.

 He gives a small smile. “But you’re the one doing all the real work.”

He meets your eyes, sincere and steady. “You’re doing an amazing job. She’s lucky to have you.”

The words sink in deeper than you expect. You let out a small, shaky breath, your gaze dropping to your hands before you lift it again.

You manage a small, tired smile. “Sometimes… it doesn’t feel like it,” you admit.

He watches you for a moment. "Being a mother is the biggest job in the world. And you’re doing it on your own? That takes strength, patience, and selflessness… The kind that shows up every single day.”

It’s like he sees all the effort. The sleepless nights, the quiet sacrifices no one else notices.

“And she’s going to grow up knowing all of it…the love, the sacrifices, even the things she never saw. Some days are harder than others. But from what I can see… you’re doing more than fine.”

You swallow, blinking quickly, his words settling somewhere deep, somewhere you don’t usually let anyone reach.

“You should rest,” he says. “I’ll keep an eye on her while you close your eyes for a bit.”

You hesitate. The thought of letting someone else carry even a small part of this burden feels both foreign and quietly relieving. Finally, you give a tiny nod, surrendering to the rare permission to rest.

As you drift off, little do you know, Jack is imagining too. He had been married, but he and his late wife never had children. Holding Nora, feeling the soft rhythm of her breathing in his arms, he wonders what it might feel like…to experience something he never had the chance to, to share the small, ordinary moments that make a family.

—

You hear gurgling giggles.

Blinking awake, you freeze. Warmth still lingering against your cheek. Slowly, it dawns on you. You’ve been asleep against Jack’s shoulder. How that happened, you have no idea. You remember him telling you to rest. You’d meant to close your eyes for just a few minutes but clearly, that didn’t happen. You’d completely passed out.

Nora is laughing, her hands reaching for Jack as he makes faces and silly noises to entertain her.

He notices you shifting beside him. “Hey, look who’s awake! Mama’s up, Nora” he says, turning her toward you so she can see you.

“Oh my gosh—” you pull back, cheeks flaming. “I… I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to fall asleep on your shoulder… or leave you stuck with Nora while I rested.”

Jack shakes his head, smiling gently. “It’s okay. She’s been up for a bit, but I didn’t have the heart to wake you. We’ve just been hanging out,” he says, moving Nora’s arms playfully, letting her giggle even more at his antics.

He passes her gently into your arms. “Hi, my love,” you murmur softly, holding her close. 

Nora giggles again, reaching up to tug at your hair and poke your cheek. You can’t help but smile, despite the lingering embarrassment from having slept on Jack.

“She’s been in a very good mood,” he says softly, glancing between you and Nora. “I think she missed you.”

“I guess I missed a little of the fun while I was… unconscious.”

Jack chuckles softly, shaking his head. “Well, we saved some for you,” he says

“Welcome to Pittsburgh International Airport. The local time is approximately 11:30 a.m. We are beginning our descent, so please make sure your seat backs and tray tables are in their full upright positions, your seat belts are securely fastened, and all carry-on items are stowed.”

“All right, that’s our cue to get you changed,” you say, grabbing Nora’s diaper bag and heading to the lavatory. You change her diaper quickly but carefully, making sure she stays calm and comfortable before landing.

When you return to your row, you settle Nora on your lap and let her press her tiny hands against the window, her wide eyes sparkling as she takes in the view outside.

The plane touches down with a gentle thrum, tires squealing softly against the runway. You settle back in your seat, letting out a quiet sigh as the motion steadies.

You glance around at the passengers beginning to gather their things. Deciding to wait until the aisle clears. You plan to deboard slowly, careful with Nora in your arms.

Jack watches as someone seated near the back makes their way to the front, weaving past everyone still waiting in their seats. The doors haven’t even opened yet.

“I don’t get why everyone’s in such a rush to leave,” he mutters, shaking his head. “I mean, I get connecting flights and all that, but we’re all leaving. Just… be patient. God, it irks me.”

​​“Same,” You agree. 

People begin to stream past, gathering their things and heading toward the exit. You and Jack remain seated, letting the crowd clear. 

An elderly woman nearby peers at the two of you with a warm smile. “Oh, you two did so good with her,” she says. “I saw you walking her up and down the aisle—such a sweet pair.”

Your stomach twists slightly as you realize she thinks you and Jack are together. Before either of you can correct her, she gives one last approving nod and makes her way down the aisle to exit the plane.

You glance at Jack, who raises an eyebrow. A faint smirk tugging at his lips. Neither of you says anything, but a quiet, unspoken amusement hangs in the air mingled with just a touch of awkwardness.

Eventually, everyone left the plane. Jack slings his bag over his shoulder, and you follow close behind, baby bag over one shoulder and Nora in your arms.

“This your bag?” he asks, reaching into the overhead bin.

“Mhm,” you reply. He pulls it down for you. You reach to grab it, but he holds on firmly. “I got it,” he says with a small smile.

He steps aside, letting you go first down the aisle. You give the flight attendants a warm smile and a quick thank-you as you pass.

On the jet bridge, Nora’s stroller is waiting. Before you can even unfold it, Jack beats you to it. He sets your backpack on the ground and flips the stroller open with ease.

You smile at him, grateful. “Thanks,” you say softly.

You place Nora in the stroller, adjusting her straps and shoving the baby bag neatly underneath. As you reach for your backpack again, Jack chuckles. “I said I got it.”

He just nods down the jetway, silently telling you to move along. You shake your head, a small, amused smile slipping past your lips as you follow him. 

You and Jack navigate the crowded terminal together. The soft rumble of luggage wheels and distant announcements fill the background as you make your way to the baggage claim.

Eventually, you reach carousel number 27.

“Do you have any luggage?” he asks.

“I have a duffle bag,” you reply. 

“What color?”

“Jack… seriously, you’ve done more than enough. I can manage. Don’t you want to head home?”

He shakes his head, and shrugs “I’m not doing anything. I’ve got to wait for my ride anyway.” His eyes twinkle with playful persistence. “Now, what color?”

You glance past him to your bag, spotting it immediately amid the scattered luggage.

“That one, right there… the purple duffle,” you say, pointing.

Without a second thought, he weaves through the small crowd and reaches your bag in no time. He lifts your heavy duffle, your backpack, and his own, carrying all three as if they weigh nothing at all. You watch him, a mix of gratitude and amusement washing over you. 

Once outside, you both wait for your ride. You end the call with your cousin, who’s making their way back around.

“I really appreciate all your help, Jack,” you say, smiling at him. That’s when your eyes catch the ring on his finger. Married. Of course he was. You aren’t surprised. Even after just a few hours, his character is clear: caring, dependable, quietly strong… the kind of man who notices the small things, who steps in without being asked. It makes sense why someone like him would be spoken for.

He notices your gaze lingering and offers a small, knowing smile, acknowledging it without judgment.

“Do you have kids?” you ask, curiosity threading your voice.

He hesitates for a moment, twisting the ring absentmindedly. “No,” he says quietly. “My late wife and I never had kids.”

You blink, caught off guard. “Oh…” Your chest tightens in a way you weren’t expecting. Silence stretches between you, filled only by the distant hum of cars and the soft shuffle of feet on the pavement.

“I’m… sorry,” you murmur, unsure what else to say.

He gives a small, almost wistful smile “It’s okay. We had… a good life, all things considered,” he says softly. “I was lucky to have loved her.” 

Your voice softens, thoughtful. “Well… she was lucky too, for having a good man by her side.”

He glances at you, a hint of something sadness, warmth, maybe both touching his expression. “Thanks,” he murmurs. “That means a lot.”

“And for the record” you say softly, “you’d be a great dad.”

He chuckles, shaking his head slightly. “You think?”

“You were great with Nora,” you insist, a small smile tugging at your lips.

“Eh,” he shrugs, a teasing glint in his eyes. “I’ve been around my fair share of babies… family.. My friends’ babies, mostly.”

“Well,” you say, leaning a little closer, “I think you’ve got the skills for fatherhood. Patient, gentle… and somehow still calm in the chaos.”

He pauses, a soft smile spreading across his face. “Thanks,” he murmurs again. 

A car pulls up, breaking the gentle bubble that had formed around the two of you. Your cousin waving energetically as they roll down the passenger door window

“Hey!” your cousin shouts, grinning.

“This is me,” you tell Jack. You don’t want the time together to end, and he doesn’t either, though neither of you notices it. Reality nudges in, pulling you toward the waiting car.

“Hi!” Your cousin steps out of the car and they give you a hug. 

Jack immediately helps by putting your duffle and backpack in the car. You take Nora out of the stroller, he takes the baby bag out and collapses the stroller putting it in the back. You hand Nora off to your cousin who buckles her inside the car seat. 

Jack meets you at the curb side where Nora's buckled in. Your cousin gives you an amused look before returning to the driver's sear

“Thank you again, for everything,” you say softly.

“No problem,” he replies easily, though there’s a hint of wistfulness in his tone. He leans down slightly toward Nora and wiggles his finger playfully. She immediately grabs onto it, giggling, her tiny fingers curling around him with surprising strength.

“Give it time,” he continues, his voice gentle, carefully moving his finger away from her. “But Pittsburgh… it’ll start feeling like home soon. I’m sure you’ll learn to love it here.”

“Bye, Nora,” he adds sweetly, giving her one last goofy face. Eyes wide, lips puffed out which sends her into another round of squeals and laughter. You can’t help but giggle.

He straightens “Take care of yourself… and the little one.”

“You too. It was nice meeting you, Jack” you say, your voice soft but warm, wanting him to know how much his help and his kindness meant to you.

“Nice meeting you too,” he replies, a small smile tugging at his lips. 

“Bye,” you call

 His eyes linger on you for just a moment longer.

“Bye,” he echoes, tipping his head slightly before turning and walking away. 

You take a deep breath, letting the warmth of the moment settle in your chest. After closing Nora’s door, you open the passenger side door. Before sliding in, you catch yourself stealing one last glance at Jack as he continues down the walkway,

You slide into the car, and your cousin leans over, eyes sparkling with curiosity. “Who was that?”

“Just… a guy I met on the plane. He was sitting next to me and helped me out with Nora. She was crying so much, and he stepped in and got her to settle,” you say, trying to sound casual as you buckle yourself in.

“And you didn’t get his number?” they tease, pulling away from the curb and weaving through the crowded pickup area.

“No,” you admit.

“Why not?” they ask, raising an eyebrow.

“I’m not looking for anything,” you say, shrugging lightly.

Your cousin snorts. “Okay, but still he was handsome. I think there was a little something there between the two of you, no?”

You roll your eyes, a small laugh escaping you. “It wasn’t like that. He just… helped. That’s all. Nothing more.” You glance out the window.

She smirks knowingly. “Right. ‘Nothing more.’ Sure. I’m just saying…don’t be surprised if he pops back into your head later.”

You bite your lip, letting a small smile slip, then shake your head as if to clear it. It’s nothing, you tell yourself. Just a fleeting moment. Someone nice, that’s all.

Still, even as you repeat it, you can’t quite stop your mind from replaying his calm smile, the way he handled Nora, the quiet way he made everything feel… lighter. But no, it’s fine. It’s nothing but a fleeting moment.

💜 @hobisystem @timefightrs @festinalente00 @karlawithacapitalk @madprincessinabox @mina2000alex @pascal-rascal424 @cari87 @the-reblog-desk @idfkwhyimhere4357 @blueblizzardreview @scribbles-by-cv @dulcebloodhnd @showgirlshawn @thelightnessofthebeing @huntycola @coldmuffinbanditshoe @artsymaddie @lv7867 @thedamnqueenofhell

[smuttyjane]

daddy is cool too i guess

[erwinsvow]

𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐦 𝐲𝐨𝐮 — 𝐚.𝐜.

summary: against better judgement, you send a letter to a man at folsom with very sad eyes. against even better judgement, you send letters every week for years until he stops replying one day. and against everything you know, when he shows up at your door, you invite him inside.

pairing: prison letters reader x andrew cody

word count: 12.4k

tags: reader is silly and does things i do not recommend. kids do not write letters to prisoners and fall in love with them. unless it's andrew cody obviously. lots of context no one asked for. nurse!reader, descriptions of wound (andrew cuts himself to get into your work because why wouldn't he!), descriptions of wound handling, smut (oral - f receiving and mating press and the tiniest hint of breeding). takes place in season one, but just imagine he's got season two's hair. you have to fully immerse yourself in the fact that it's andrew cody and then ask yourself—wouldn't you take him home too? it's not her fault!

author's note: here she is! thank you for the patience ♡

you honestly had signed up as a joke. the club was known through your campus to be run by a couple of bleeding hearts. no one had thought the school would approve their activities—letters to prisoners. it was a recipe for disaster.

you should have known better.

but a friend of a friend was involved, and you knew it would make your nursing school application look better, and honestly, you didn’t think anything would come of it. a couple of letters here and there. you had thought it’d be all anonymous, messages of motivation and prayers signed with a first name only.

until your friend—bleeding heart and hopeless romantic, trying to appeal to those very same qualities in you—had shown you the website. that’s when you should have realized it wasn’t just a recipe, it was going to be a disaster.

the prisoners recorded videos—thirty seconds, short and sweet. a name, a couple of sentences about them, hometown and hobbies. underneath the video you could see what they had been arrested for. only the ones who were in for petty crimes—drugs and robbery, things where no one else had really gotten hurt, were allowed to partake. that was good at least. didn’t need any murderers sending letters to pretty co-eds.

your friend picked the guy she thought was the cutest. you watched his video—he was handsome, you couldn’t deny it. but the more videos you watched, the less you wanted to write a letter. you could almost see it, the desperation behind their eyes. it seemed like every man had nefarious intent. like your prettily written letter would not be used for motivation and prayers of a better life outside.

you decided not to send one. you’d rather have an empty slot on your application than a bad feeling in your gut for the rest of the semester. it’s not like the prison was across the country—it was just a couple of hours away.

she asked you to give it one more chance, watch a couple more videos. just pick a cute one, she’d told you. when you’d made a noise of disapproval, she had rolled her eyes.

“okay, pick whoever seems the nicest, then.”

so you had.

the video had been labeled andrew cody. first degree robbery.

the man in the video had been incredibly genuine. you don’t remember exactly what he had said—just bits and pieces. you knew he was from oceanside, born and raised from the way he sounded. he said he had a lot of brothers and a sister back at home. that he spent his time working out and reading books to distract himself from how noisy it was inside. the first thing he’d do when he got out was go to the beach and listen to the waves and breathe in the clean salty air.

and deep down inside, you knew you were just as much of a bleeding heart as the rest of your friends. you had folded instantly.

but it wasn’t just that. you spent the next several nights thinking about him. sad eyes, a singular half-smile at his own joke and then a real one when he mentioned going to the beach once he was released. he’d followed it up with—not that it’ll be any time soon. that made you sad, in turn. you thought about what he was like before prison—did he smile more? was he always so sad?

you thought about a lot of things. more than whatever your friends did, telling you how they had sent their letters, flirty yet inherently professional, so as not to get in trouble with the advisor.

you took a while to send yours. first you couldn’t think of what to write—everything felt so stupid compared to what he must be going through. andrew would hardly want to hear about the mundaneness of your daily life, or the struggles of trying to get into the nursing program.

you thought about not sending a letter at all after the first few times you tried to put pen to paper.

and then you thought about how sad he must feel, how lonely and scared, how terrible it would be to see all the other prisoners get letters besides him.

so you drove to the beach. you surprisingly had more in common with andrew cody than you even realized when you selected him. there was nothing you loved more than the beach, which is why you had even picked your college to begin with. and now, four years later about to graduate, you couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.

you caught the sunrise. you brought your little notebook with you to the water after setting your bag down on the bench. the seagulls were flying around, a couple of other beach-goers walking along the border where the sand met the ocean. it was a day like any other.

there were two sides of you—a hopeless romantic inside of an inherently logical girl. one side argued how stupid it was to send letters to a stranger. the other wondered if this would be the day that changes your life. you push away the thought and focus on writing the damn thing.

you thought andrew might like if the letter smelled like the salt-water. the stupid idea felt a lot less silly when you were attempting it, bringing your notebook all the way down to the water and hovering it. a slightly bigger wave caught you by surprise, the corners getting wet where it splashed up.

cursing to yourself, you walked back to the bench with sandy feet. and then you started writing.

dear andrew, and then you paused. fuck. you got out some of the introductory stuff—your first name, that you were a nursing student. it took a while to get the rest of the page filled, until you stopped for a moment and thought about what you would tell the man with the sad eyes if he was sitting next to you.

i came to the beach to write this letter. i’m sorry if the corners are wrinkled when you get it, i almost dropped it in the water trying to get it to smell like the beach so you had a little piece of home with you. i’m not near oceanside but it’s still the pacific.

i can’t imagine how hard it must be to grow up near the water and then be so far away for so long. but at least you know it’ll always be waiting for you when you get released. they want us to write motivational things but i’m not sure how motivating it would be for you reading this letter about my silly life. so i thought i’d write about the beach instead.

it’s about seven in the morning. the weather isn’t too cold and sky is pink and orange right now. the waves were calmer an hour ago when i got here but now it’s getting more intense. there’s a couple with their dog, and another man running on the sand. i’m on a bench writing this, but i’ll walk along the water again before i leave. i would try to send you a shell but i’m sure they’d take it away. maybe sand?

i love the sound of the waves too. my school isn’t close enough to hear it, but i have one of those machines that makes the noises. it helps a lot when i’m trying to sleep. maybe you can get one when you get out too.

you fill up a page, and then another page. when you fold up the letter and slip it into the envelope, you take a couple grains of sand and drop it in there. a little piece of home for him.

then you mail the letter, and think that was that.

+

two weeks later, you get a letter in the mail. you’d heard some of the other girls had also gotten responses—some had been mildly wholesome, while others had been more along the lines of what are you wearing?

but you weren’t worried when you opened yours. andrew didn’t seem the creepy type to you, it felt more like… like he would be glad to have someone to talk to.

you read it in bed, holding an old stuffed animal tightly. his handwriting is stiff and neat, the evenness of the letters and dotted i’s and crossed t’s makes you smile. the way he wrote your name, with bleeding ink like he had pressed too hard into the paper while doing so, made you smile wider.

the first line—thanks for the sand—made you laugh.

andrew writes of the book he’s just read, how the beach you described sounds just like the one in his hometown, and a request that you tell him more about your life in the next letter. his letter isn’t as long as yours, which makes sense to you. he couldn’t have that much to write about. but the last line is what really gets you—thank you for the letter. it’s nice to talk to someone.

you blink away tears, unsure when you had started crying. you reread the letter twice over the next day and a half, deciding to head back to the beach early in the morning to write the next one.

and you’ve always been bad at this. your friends have always called you a hopeless romantic—but maybe you’re just in too deep. it was the product of having been alone for your entire life, not having the dreamy, intense love that so many of your friends had already gone through once or twice at this age. the result had manifested in how you treated the world around you. every door someone held open, every nice response, every lingering gaze could mean something more. that this could be the person, that this could be your soulmate.

you knew it was stupid. nothing could be stupider than assuming that a prisoner, for god’s sake, would be anything more than just that—a prisoner you write letters to. but your heart still beats faster each time you reread the letter, and when you think of his pretty, sad eyes and earnest expression, the urge to write another letter haunts over your entire body.

dear andrew, thank you for writing back. thank you again for writing back and not being creepy (like the responses some of my friends got). i could tell you more about my life but i really wasn’t lying—it’s pretty silly and mostly boring, but since you asked so nicely i’ll try for you. right now i’m getting ready for graduation. i bought a white dress last week. i’m waiting to hear if i got into the nursing program here. i majored in nursing so I just need to do one more year and then after that i can go work in the hospital. i’m thinking about labor and delivery since i think it would be so nice to see babies all day, but one of my friends said the emergency room is always hiring. she thinks it would toughen me up. but I’m not so sure i want to be tough. just incase all of this school talk is boring you, i’ll just tell you about my day on the condition that you'll tell me about yours. yesterday i woke up early and went on a walk. i made breakfast and went to class, and then studied in the library. my friend showed me a creepy response from one of the fellow inmates (by the way, thank you again for not being creepy.) i walked to get a chai—i don't really like coffee. and then i studied, watched the bachelor. it was terrible! my favorite contestant got sent home :(. and had dinner, then I went to sleep early because i woke up early to come to the beach today to write this for you. so i went to sleep thinking about this letter and woke up thinking about it too.

you add a little bit more about your routine this time, just so he has something to read about. you try to make yourself sound interesting where you can—but you’re really not. and you don’t want to force it, make your letters sound grand and full of lies.

you don’t know why—it’s not like you’ll ever meet him. but lying to andrew feels wrong, you guess.

stupid. you’re stupid for adding the last part—but something in your heart flutters reading the line again, because you did. andrew’s sad eyes are in your mind all the time, and you know it’s just a silly infatuation, that he’s a prisoner and you’re a random student and more likely than not, he’s not going to respond to this letter. but you still keep it in.

and so you send the letter. and what’s worse—the one you get back makes your heart swell. he says that you describe your routine so well he can almost see it happening in his head like a movie. he says that he could describe his day-to-day but that it might make you sad. you’re sure it will. he seems to know a lot about you from just a handful of letters.

you reply. he sends another. you reply. and before you can even discern what’s happened, this has been going on for the better part of a year and a half.

andrew gets all the life updates—your nursing school acceptance, how the first year goes. early morning clinicals, the mean preceptor who made your life hell for a month, the baby you got to help deliver, the cat you’re thinking about getting. and the not so great stuff—despite the nursing shortage, it seems the only available job at the hospital you like is in the emergency room.

you don’t give him names but he figures it out well enough. the program you sent the letters through was smart enough not to include the university’s name in the return address, but dumb enough to use a p.o. box in the same city. and in that city, there’s only two colleges, and only one of those has a nursing program.

these are the things he uses to figure out where you are after he gets out—not that you need to know any of that just yet.

after you get the job, the letters are stamped with the mark of the local post office. you must not know that they’re doing that, now that you can’t send the letters through the school anymore. that’s the last piece of the puzzle, figuring out which emergency room you had been working in.

he keeps those letters. they’re his sanctuary—pages and pages about your life. the highs and lows of an innocent girl who thought it would be a good idea to send letters to a prisoner. letters where you asked about him, how he was feeling, how he was doing. how much time he had left, how he thinks the next parole meeting will go, how that annoying guard has been recently. how’s your family, andrew?

if he closes his eyes, he can almost see you. you’re a faceless entity, a glowing angel with a halo hovering in his mind when he really needs you. you’re too perfect to be real—and he knows you would be outside too. if you can care this much through letters, go out of your way to send them even after you graduate, he can only imagine how you’d be if you stood in front of him.

the other students who sent letters stopped after one or two. he’s likely the only one who’s still getting them, and when someone questions who they’re from, he tells a story about his girl, waiting for him outside. a nurse—smart and pretty and devoted and who never fails to send him a weekly update. lives too far to drive up here but he’ll be there one day.

and then he gets sent to solitary.

he doesn’t like to think about it, if he can avoid it. sometimes the noises of the world get to him, brings him back to days and hours he wish he could wipe from his memory. the sound machine you recommended in your very first letter helps some. but the day he goes free, there’s only one sound he knows will calm him down—your voice, the first time he’ll get to hear it.

he has to go home first. he needs a car, the internet, a couple of phone calls to make sure he’s going to the right place.

days turn into weeks. unfortunately—very unfortunately. the only thing andrew wants is to finally see you in person, to finally hear what your voice sounds like. what color is your hair? what color are your eyes? he knows you like yellow—what would he find if he saw you? yellow hair clips? painted nails? how about your apartment? would the walls be yellow?

no, probably not. you rent. you wouldn’t do anything that wouldn’t get you your security deposit back. you’re too good for that, too safe.

yellow sheets, maybe. blankets, pillows. if he closes his eyes, he can imagine himself in it.

he tries to leave after the first job but there’s too many watchful eyes, too many moving pieces. he needs to get everything together—his truck, cash and some cards, a plausible excuse. he needs to make sure no one comes following him, needs to make sure that in his quest to come find you, he doesn’t get you tangled into the web of his family instead. he’s stuck somewhere between figuring out how to keep you safe and the realization that the safest you’ll ever be is right now, before he comes for you.

but fuck, if it doesn’t haunt him. the fact that he’s finally so close to you. that you’re a car ride away. that somewhere out there is the girl who, one day, realized another letter wouldn’t be coming.

had you cried then? been upset? wondered what had happened? bothered to find out if he was dead or freed or living without you? he hates that he couldn’t get you another letter to explain himself, but he figures explaining in person would be easier, and better. in all those years, you never once wrote him about a date or a boyfriend or anything in that realm.

the way your last few letters were, it were almost as if he was your boyfriend. (he lets the thought linger inside him for a few seconds, if that. any longer and it would possess him like a demon and he’d be rendered useless. unable to work, unable to think, unable to breathe. just him and the idea that he was that important to someone else.)

+

and then one day, a couple days after a job and after being fed up with the entire world being scared of him, he leaves to find you.

that’s just the thing—no one understands him. all his life, he’s been the unstable one, the one others are worried about, frightened of. but no one understands that there’s nothing to be afraid of.

no one, except maybe you.

so he says he’ll be back in a week, and he drives down to the hospital where you work.

he hasn’t gotten a real look at you yet. he spent the first night in the parking lot of the emergency room. he watches hordes of nurses go in and out, and no one stands out. he spends some time doing research—nurses only work three times a week.

his odds of seeing you for the rest of the time he’s in town are fifty/fifty. it feels like he should be able to pick you out from a crowd, with the way he knows you so intimately, but he can’t. he keeps an eye out for yellow water bottles or shoes or lunch bags, but he doesn’t see any for two days.

so he decides that he needs to get inside.

pope keeps a pocket knife on his person, and another one hidden in the car in case of emergencies. that’s what he uses to slice his palm open so he has an excuse to get inside. not too deep—he’s not stupid. just deep enough to need stitches, shallow enough that he can still feel all his fingers and wiggle them around.

and then he goes inside, and he waits.

each time the doors open, a different nurse steps out. some are too old, others too young. no one has anything yellow on them, or the personality that he knows could only belong to you. cheery, but serious. empathetic to a fault. you would probably cry if you saw a kid crying, just like how you used to write to andrew, telling him you had cried thinking about a patient you lost and their family, cried thinking about him alone in prison.

you’ve shed tears for him. a man you’ve never even met. he has to recognize you when he sees you. he knows he will—the two of you are bonded in more ways than one. through ink and blood and tears.

“david?” a voice calls out. so lost in his thoughts, he’d not realized the doors had opened again or the name he’d given them. he looks up, making eye contact with the nurse, his nurse, and she walks closer. “david?” the voice repeats, and he raises the non-bloody hand.

you are just like he thought you’d be. your hair is pulled back, which is a shame. he wants to see what it looks like when it’s down, what it smells like when you get close enough. pieces in the front fall out from behind your ear. his finger twitches momentarily.

and, he thinks with a pleasant sort of smugness, there is yellow—the plastic band around the stethoscope, the badge reel with a smiling cartoon on it, the pens tucked neatly in your scrub top pocket.

“hi david, i’m going to be your nurse today,” you start, looking at him in the eyes. your eyebrows furrow a little, like you’re trying to remember why this man looks so familiar—it’s not like he had expected it. his hair isn’t the same anymore, longer than the video you had seen of him. if that was your benchmark, he certainly looked somewhat different. he doesn’t fault you for not recognizing him right away. in fact, it’s better this way. “if you’re ready, i can take you back now.”

you smile at him, beautifully. a bright, wide smile, like there’s nothing in this world you’d rather do than take david back, and have a look at whatever’s bothering him. it’s genuine, it’s safe, it’s warm. how do you do it? he thinks briefly to himself, how do you make everyone feel like they’re the most important person in the world? just with a smile and a couple of sentences you must say a thousand times a shift.

andrew’s not one for many words, but his thoughts run rampant—he’s always thinking. he can’t get his brain to turn off, not now, not ever. even putting pen to paper was hard for him, even for you. but you seem to understand him, just like you did back then. without words, without talking, without touching or knowing. you just know him.

you take him to a bed behind a curtain and start rattling off a list of rehearsed questions. first name, age, date of birth. the more he says, the more you seem to get a step closer to recognizing him, but he doesn’t push it.

you come closer to the bed and gesture to his wrapped up, bleeding hand.

“may i?”

“yes. yes,” andrew says, unsure of how it’ll be to feel your hands on him for the first time. you start slowly, unpeeling the layers of gauze that he had brought with him from home as a just incase. he doesn’t flinch or wince, but you still speak up.

“i’m sorry, i know it’s not very comfortable.” you apologize without needing to, and he’s sure it’s because you want him to feel better about it. “how did this happen again?” you ask, staring at his wound closely. you’re not very far from his face. he can feel your breath even against his skin.

“accident. was cutting something.”

“well, you should be more careful, david.” his middle name has always felt foreign to him, though somehow, it doesn’t seem that way coming from your lips. andrew briefly feels like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be than here, no one else he’d rather be than david, getting his hand tended to by you.

“yeah. i should.”

“well i’m going to go ahead and get this cleaned up. just to be sure, any drug allergies?” he shakes his head. “great. we’re gonna clean it and then the doctor will be in here to stitch it up and we’ll get you on your way back home. does that sound okay?”

you look at him earnestly. as if on the off chance he said it didn’t sound okay, you’d have an answer ready to go. nothing to shame him, nothing to make him feel bad. just to comfort him and make him feel better. like there’s nothing more important than getting him back home with aid instructions for the rest of the week.

memories of your letters wash over him like a warm wave over soft sand. you’ve known from the jump that you were meant for this, but it all suddenly makes sense. how kind you are, how gentle you are with him, how you’d be with anyone.

you were meant for this, just like how you were meant for him.

“that sounds okay.”

you sit on a stool at the level of his hand. you dab with the cleaning solution and tell him you’re sorry about the sting. it’s half a dozen apologies in the short time he’s known you, and he sits and wonders, staring at your pretty hair and the undoubtedly smooth skin of your neck, that he’ll have to work you out of that habit.

you shouldn’t be apologizing for anything, much less helping people the way you do.

he stares at you while you think of another question to ask him to distract him from the pain of cleaning his wound.

and your patient is nothing if not a starer. when you got up to add something to the chart and stopped to chat with a fellow nurse and friend of yours about how long it might take the doctor to see him—calling him by his nickname, mister sliced hand in bed four—she interrupted you half way through the conversation.

“the one who’s staring at us right now?” you turned your head too quickly to see what she was talking about, and were faced with sliced-hand david, looking at you and the other nurse.

not in a creepy way, like some other past patients of yours. he’s just…looking. like he’s waiting for you to come back. his gaze doesn’t leave you, you notice. he watches your friend as though he’s watching over you.

the thought is almost… sweet.

and then you shake your head and turn around, breaking the eye contact. you have a bad habit of doing this—turning every interaction, every look into your eyes and held-open door into something more than it was.

your new friends at the hospital also call you a hopeless romantic. you knew that you were just sort of an idiot when it came to these things. it was the long-standing result of still never having been in a real relationship. you’d never felt the fireworks, never known the rom-com sort of true love and happy ending. you had never even gotten to the angst-filled third act breakup.

so maybe you were still a bit of a projector—projecting every single interaction into something more than it was. a patient with a staring problem became a man who was looking out for you, worried for you, love at first sight.

and you shake your head again. snap out of it. you had a problem, seriously.

the closest you’d even come to anything remotely related to love at first sight was the insane amount of letters you’d written to a prisoner a few years ago, and even then—

stop. it. you barely knew what the guy looked like, and yet, you found yourself wondering all the time what had happened to him. if today would finally be the day you’d find out. he could be the stranger next to you in the coffee shop. the person buying fruit next to you in the grocery store.

for all you know, he could be the next guy who walks into your life, and yet—

“you are seriously such a goner,” she says with a laugh, playfully shoving your shoulder.

“what? i-i just got lost in my thoughts.”

“a guy could blink at you and you’d be imagining your embroidered towels and baby names-”

“that is not true-”

“right, i know. you’re right. you’re just gonna hold out for mister prisoner until you’re an old lady with a bunch of cats-”

“hey! i have one cat and he is adorable, okay-”

“yeah, yeah. that’s how it always starts. one cat.”

“i’m going to go take care of my patient now.”

“don’t let him blink at you.”

you roll your eyes and make your way back to bed four, where david stares up at you with pretty, sad eyes. eyes that seem a little familiar, but it’s hour eight of twelve and you’ve taken care of half a hundred people so far. your tiredness seeps through your pores but you still smile and sit on the stool.

“sorry about that, david.”

“are you okay?” he asks, incredibly earnestly. you blink at him dumbly. once, then twice.

“yes?” you reply slowly, unsure of what he means. maybe you’re more tired than you thought. “is everything okay?”

“i saw her push you.” you blink again.

“oh. oh. no, no, she’s my friend. that was just, um-” you blank momentarily. his concern is so palpable you can feel it in the air. “-a joke. she was joking.”

“oh. okay.” david goes silent but his eyes are still on you. you decide the best course of action is to change the subject.

“so! david. this might be hard but no going in the water for at least a couple days. maybe more, depending on what the doctor says.”

“sure. can i.. can i still go sit on the beach?”

“yeah. that should be fine.” you clean out the wound further, but he doesn’t wince. “do you do that often?”

“yes. it calms me down.”

“me too. something about the sand and the waves. the air is just-”

“cleaner.” for the first time that night, david interrupts you. your eyes leave his hand to look up at his face.

“yeah,” you agree, slowly, wondering why his words feel so familiar to you. “cleaner.”

there’s a brief pause, and david doesn’t say anything. you look back down at his hand, continuing your work. but something inside of you stirs, curiosity poking and prodding at your memories. you’ve heard that before, somewhere, and even then you had thought about how no one had ever used that word to describe the ocean air before, when—

“i thought you wanted to deliver babies. do you not want to do that anymore?”

as if it was in slow motion, you retract your hands away from his. you move your head to look up at him and your jaw falls open a little—you had known david looked a little familiar, but when you had seen that thirty second video of him, his hair had been short and his skin had been a little paler, and the man sitting in front of you now—

well he wasn’t cute anymore.

he was handsome now—dark brown curls grown out. he looked like he’d spent some time in the sun, recently. his eyes—sad and pretty as they were—seemed a bit softer now. and your gaze on him made them even softer, like he was trying his best not to frighten you. how someone takes care of a skittish animal, ready to bolt at any second.

you swallow, and then bring your hands back to his, keeping the piece of soaked gauze on top of his wound gently

“i-i do. want to. this was just the only job opening when i-” you pause, sucking in a deep breath. he already knows about this—andrew. it was in one of your letters. “when i finished school.”

you feel his hand move under your touch, and then his other hand, the unwounded one, over yours. his grip isn’t tight, but it’s tense. hard. like he wants to make sure you can’t just disappear like sand between his fingers.

“i thought you might have found another job by now.”

“it-it’s hard. you get used to something and it’s hard to leave.” you pause again. there’s a million and one questions storming through your mind, but you stare into hazel eyes and they all go quiet, one by one. “you said your name is david-”

“i wanted to see if you would recognize me.”

“i’m sorry, i-”

“don’t apologize.” andrew, like his letters, speaks concisely. you should have guessed. you would send him pages just to get a few paragraphs back—and he would always say it’s because he didn’t have much to talk about, that learning about your day to day was much better than whatever he could tell you.

it was the first time your heart fluttered with the knowledge that out there, somewhere, is a man who wants to hear about your day. the closest you had ever gotten to the semblance of a real relationship. a man who cared about you, even if he never said as much. it was always clear to you, through his carefully chosen words and the things he wrote you about and how much he said he liked hearing about you.

he used to ask you questions about things from a dozen letters ago. remember to follow up after some big exam or a really hard week at work. asked you what you did to feel better. tell you what he would do to help you feel better—nothing creepy, never creepy. if you were supposed to be scared of him, you never were. he never gave you any reason to.

“are you okay?” andrew asks, and you blink yourself out of your thoughts.

“yes. yes, sorry. i just-” it’s a little ridiculous.

you’re a smart girl. you’ve always been a smart girl. you don’t do stupid things—you don’t drink yourself silly at bars and go home with random men. you don’t say yes to dates with strangers, despite how much you believe that a stranger can become a soulmate in an instant. you don’t put yourself in situations you can’t get out of.

but when it comes to andrew, you haven’t listened to a single one of your own rules. you sent him letters for ages after the other girls in your class had stopped. you had opened up about your life and wanted to learn about his life in exchange.

and despite every greater instinct, you had fallen asleep for years thinking about the day he might walk back into your life.

“did you ever get my last letter, andrew?”

you’re not even sure where the words came from—that’s the last thing you should be saying right now. how did you find me? when did you get out of prison? why are you here right now? should have all come before.

but something inside you burns, like it has for years, with the knowledge that he never sent you another letter. and you need to know why.

andrew sits up a little straighter, taking heavy breaths and staring at you. it’s the first time he’s heard you say his name, his real name. you two haven’t moved an inch, his hand still on yours. he blinks slowly at you and you don’t realize it, but you’re holding your breath.

“i did. i-i was in solitary. they don’t let you write letters there.”

“oh. i’m so sorry,” you say, and it’s second nature. you hate what andrew went through, and seeing him in front of you brings you back to the first letter you ever got back from him. how polite he was in it, how sweet the whole thing seemed. it was never meant to get this far, but it had, and you—

you are nothing if not a believer of soulmates and fate.

“that’s okay. not your fault.”

“but still. that must have been really hard.”

“i wanted to write back. i-” he stops, pulling out something from the pocket of his button-up shirt. he unfolds a piece of white notebook paper—and the breath you were holding leaves you quickly. that’s the paper you used to write him letters on.

“is that my last letter?” when andrew moves to look at you, he’s expecting it. a nervous lilt to your voice, fear in your eyes. like he’s crazy, like you’re scared.

instead he glances over hesitantly and you’re beaming up at him.

“you carry around.. my last letter?” the words come out as a smile forms on your face—pretty and genuine and sincere. you stare at him expectantly, and he doesn’t know how to respond.

“i…” the words falter. “i just wanted to ask you about it. did you, did you get that cat?”

“i did!” it comes out louder than you meant it, drawing the attention of some other nurses around you. you turn briefly, using your free hand to push the curtain so it’s closed around you two. “sorry. i did, yes. he’s so cute. i don’t have my phone or i’d show you the pictures-”

“that’s okay. you-you can show me later.”

“but i didn’t say i was getting a cat in that one. i just said i was thinking about it,” you feel breathless.

“but there was another one before that. you mentioned it then too. i figured you’d get it since you were thinking about it so much.”

“yeah. yeah, exactly.” your brain can’t seem to compute what’s going on. any fear that had been in you, if there was any of it to begin with, has completely melted away, replaced with a warm, glowing feeling in your chest, slowly spreading out to your limbs.

you had been thinking about getting a cat for ages—a thought you had mentioned to andrew maybe twice. and your justification had been just as andrew said, because you were thinking about it so much.

how did he know that?

and then the curtain opens behind you, and the doctor comes in to stitch up andrew’s hand. you have to pull away from his hand and andrew thinks you’re leaving, eyes following you and his expression shifting, but you don’t leave. you go to the cabinets to pull the supplies and help the doctor and and keep your eyes focused on the wound while his hand gets stitched up. eight stitches and not a single wince of pain or discomfort.

and though the thought makes butterflies emerge and fly around your stomach, when you finally look up at andrew, he’s been staring at you the entire time.

+

you have a tiny apartment in a shitty neighbourhood. it doesn’t feel safe at all, save for the fact that one of the houses down the street is owned by a rookie cop and his wife. there’s not that much crime, but the area inherently feels bad.

maybe it’s just that way to him—since he doesn’t want you living in a place like this.

it’s fine for now though. he’ll get you a better place soon enough. it’s by the water, and when he closes his eyes, he can hear the waves crashing on the sand. the sound alone might be enough to justify why you’d live here.

he keeps his eyes shut, just for a half dozen heartbeats, when he pulls up against your curb. he just wants to hear it before he says goodbye—it’s getting late, almost dark, and you must be exhausted. you’ve been at work all day and though you act like you’re completely fine, he knows how intense it is. there’s other letters, safely stored away, where you told him about how breaks are far and few in between, how you barely get time to drink water and eat a snack because of how busy it gets. he offered to stop and pick you up something to eat but you refused, saying you had food at home that you shouldn’t waste.

you sit in the passenger seat of his truck, staring around it as if you’re looking for some more information about it. anything would help you—half-empty drinks or gum wrappers or extra clothes in the backseat, but there’s nothing. the truck looks like he just got it yesterday, no sign of use or anything branding it as andrew’s car.

“can i walk you to your door?” you snap out of your thoughts.

okay—maybe it wasn’t the smartest idea in the world to let a virtual stranger drive you home. but when his hand was taken care of and you give him the paper instructions with way too many sample packets of antibiotic gel, all he said was that he’ll wait for you.

“wait for what?”

“to make sure you get home safely.”

and, really, what are you supposed to say to that? no, i’m good, thanks. you’d be even stupider than you already are to say that to someone who is just trying to be nice to you.

(he’s more chivalrous than any guy you’ve ever talked to, and probably more than any guy your friends have ever complained to you about. and more than that, it’d be rude to say no, especially once he realized you wait for a shoddy-at-best bus to get you home because you don’t have a car and it’s too dark to walk. he wouldn’t take no for an answer after that.)

and more than that—he waited another two hours for you to get home. every time you’d step out to bring back another patient, you’d see him, sitting there, waiting patiently for you. glancing up when the door would open to get a glimpse of you, of the small smile you shot his way before taking back whoever’s turn it was.

and he’s not a real stranger, a voice in the back of your head keeps reminding you. you’ve known him for longer than some of your coworkers have known their fiancees and husbands. and in all the time you’ve known him (meaning all the letters you’ve sent and received), you’ve never gotten a creepy word or even a fragment of a sentence that frightened you.

so you think the least you can do is let him drive you home and walk you up the two flights of stairs.

“of course. thank you, for-” your sentence gets interrupted. andrew gets out of the car and you turn to do the same, but then you see him—walking around the front of his truck, coming to your side and then opening the door for you.

oh.

your heart thuds dully in your chest at the very idea of andrew opening his car’s door for you to get out. after driving you home and politely asking to walk you up. whatever inhibitions you had melt away and you briefly think that whatever he asked of you, you’d do it in a heartbeat, no questions asked.

if that made you stupid, then so be it. you’d gladly be the stupidest girl on the planet if you get to feel whatever it was that andrew cody has made you feel for the last couple of hours.

his truck is jacked up tall, and he gives you his hand, the one without the cut, to help you get down, and you accept. he closes the door for you and lets you lead the way up the stairs.

silently, you two walk up the creaky steps together. hands brush together for all of seconds and he briefly wishes seconds lasted longer, until you’re standing in front of your door.

you’d once had a cute spring-themed wreath on the door, bought on clearance from the local store after easter, and a matching door mat. your elderly neighbor had told you to get rid of it because it was basically an invitation to criminals that a young girl lived here alone. you’re stupid, but not that stupid.

and now your front door looks barren and empty. there’s a few plants you can see from the window sill but the curtains are drawn and there’s an extra dead bolt a fellow nurse from the hospital’s husband had helped you install.

you look up silently at andrew and he looks back at you. this is it—it’s supposed to be goodbye. any normal girl would know that this is where the night needs to end, that you need to process what all of this means and if you had any friends you trusted with this information, calling them and asking what to do.

but you don’t want to call your friends, because you know what they’d say—to lock your door and get a restraining order and burn andrew’s letters, the ones you kept in a cute box under your bed and reread much too often for anyone’s comfort.

and you’re not a normal girl.

“do you want to stay for dinner?”

there’s not much to study on andrew’s expression—he keeps it stern and serious for the most part. his eyes are soft when they look at you and they soften even further when you say those words.

“yes. yes, thank you.”

you think maybe he wasn’t expecting it. you think that you weren’t expecting it either, not exactly sure where the words had come from. but you still lead andrew inside, showing him the only slightly comfortable couch you had to get delivered since you didn’t have anyone to help you lug a used one up the stairs. the squeaky door that leads to the bathroom, the tiny space you called your kitchen. your bedroom is behind a closed door and andrew stares at it when you go inside to change out of your scrubs and come back out in the kind of clothes that you sleep in.

and then he stares at the shut door even after you leave, before realizing that you’ve already made your way to the space between the living room and kitchen, a narrow expanse with a small round table and some placemats with flowers on them. you set down your backpack and take your hair out of the clip that holds it back for you at work and suddenly, he’s staring again.

it’s just a little too close to everything he’s been dreaming about for years.

“i’m really sorry. i was supposed to go grocery shopping but i hate bringing everything up-”

“don’t apologize.”

“also, i’m-i’m not really a good cook. i’m sorry-”

“i don’t think anything you make can be worse than prison food.”

“i really doubt that. you’ve never had my cooking.”

you glance back him and he meets your eyes at the same time, and you both start laughing. it’s nothing crazy—andrew didn’t seem like the kind who laughs easily anyway, but he cracks a smile and the noise is indelible—all you can think of is how you can get him to laugh again.

“do you like spaghetti?”

+

if someone had told you yesterday that this time tomorrow, andrew from your letters would be sitting across from you at your dining table, eating spaghetti that you made while rushing, looking so in place in your tiny home that your heart hurts, you think you would have passed out.

you watch him while he eats, absentmindedly swirling your own noodles on the plate, unable to focus on eating when he’s really in front of you. after countless dreams and days spent wondering what had happened to him and if he was okay and if he ever thought about you. he’s… bigger than you thought he would be. shoulders broader than you had realized from that tiny video. his mannerisms interest you more than they should—how quiet he is, but how he seems to latch onto every word when you go on and on. just like the letters, it seems he’s still a listener.

(it doesn’t help matters when he tries to clear the table and wash the dishes after—you have to wrestle the plates out of his hand and tell him to go sit down, that he can’t get his bandage wet. jostling against his iron-hard body was not on the list of things you thought you’d get to do today, and the very realization that andrew is twice as strong as you on his worst day does…things to you. things that do not need to be named or explored right now. he’s still a stranger, you try to remind yourself. no he’s not.)

but it seems that he can’t sit still. he wipes down the counter and then comes back to help you dry your yellow dishes and when you both finish up, with you still smiling at him and unsure of what excuse you can conjure to get him to stay, he finds it all by himself. you tell andrew to go sit on the couch while you finish up and he does, and when you follow him out there, he’s standing in front of it. he turns his head to look at you and then back at the couch.

your cat is perched on his usual spot, and you go over to him, scratching the top of his head between his ears and making extremely childish, stupid-sounding noises at him.

“andrew this is wardy,” you say, picking him up and bringing him closer. “he’s really friendly. i promise.”

“hello, wardy.” when he says it, you look up at him with a look he can’t find words to describe. as close to love as you can get it when it’s a technically a stranger. the way he greets your cat and helps you clean and knows more about you than some of your friends and coworkers do.

there’s no words for it. it just is.

so you sit on the couch next to andrew, your cat between the two of you, and you wait for him to tell you that he wants to leave. you flick on the television, settling for whatever silly romance movie is playing on your netflix account, sitting in the almost-silence with andrew and wondering why still, it doesn’t feel necessarily uncomfortable.

eventually andrew reaches out to pet wardy, and he curls up into his touch, settling comfortably against his forearm. (his huge, thick, veiny forearm, you think briefly, before chasing the thought away with a broom. and then another one—no wonder he had bled so much at the hospital. with veins like these.)

“this area’s not the best,” andrew says, speaking as though you need to be reminded of it, to know that he doesn’t approve.

“i know. but it’s cheap and it’s near the beach.”

“but you live alone. it’s dangerous.”

“but-” you glance over at him. he takes up most of your couch, wardy’s head resting against his thigh now, while he continues petting him. he looks over at you and it’s clear—this isn’t an argument. “you’re right. but i mean, how bad can it be? if you’re here now?”

you pause. stupidly, you’ve just revealed whatever thoughts have been rattling around in your head. like the fact that you’re assuming he’s going to be here more often, when the truth is that you have no idea if that’s true.

why would it be true? you tried, in earnest, to make sure your life never seemed anything more than it really was in your letters. but andrew drives a brand new truck and wears an expensive watch and you have absolutely no idea what he was robbing or why he was doing it—and you never asked. the assumption that just because he found you, meant that he was going to keep you was completely insane. a misgiving on your part, because surely, whatever’s waiting for him back home is better than your crappy cooking and a tiny apartment and a cat that you—

“sorry, i’m sorry. that’s such a jump. we just met. i’m so sorry, i can-” you stand up, and so does andrew.

“why are you apologizing?”

“because i just.. i don’t know.” you try to pace around your apartment but you only get a few steps away before you have to come back. “this is crazy. we’re both crazy.”

you feel it in the air before you hear him say it. it gets tenser, quieter, more serious. like what you’ve both been dreading for the last few hours is about to happen.

“do…do you want me to leave?” you turn to face him quickly.

“no! no, i don’t. that’s why this is crazy. people are going to think we’re insane. i don’t want you to go. i want you stay. i want you to tell me everything i missed in the last year and a half. i want to know what you did with my letters. i want to know-”

and when andrew reaches forward to grab your forearm—gently, not meant to hurt you—you freeze in your tracks. staring up at him, all the words in your brain, every stupid thing your friends ever told you about this make-shift relationship you had concocted in your head melting away.

“i want that too.”

“oh. well, i just thought-”

and this time, he doesn’t let you finish, leaning in for a kiss that makes your knees give out. andrew’s mouth—wet and hot and on fire—kisses you like you two were made for each other.

as cheesy as the thought feels, you swallow it and wrap your arms around his neck. it’s every stupid romance movie you’ve ever seen coming to life, your life. all because of him. he doesn’t break the kiss, not even to breathe. you feel his tongue poke into your mouth and you accept it gladly. you fall back on the couch and the movement of it makes wardy scamper off, and you move your head just for a second to see where he runs off too, but andrew doesn’t stop. he lines kisses along your cheek and your jaw until you turn back and he gets your lips again.

you feel his weight on top of you, and briefly, you wonder if you should tell him.

countless nights spent wondering what this would feel like, how he would kiss you, all the things he would do to you. you have to keep reminding yourself, you’re just a stupid girl—it’s not your fault that a few nice letters was enough to make you head over heels for the last few years.

because somewhere deep down inside, you knew. you knew that it would be like this, that it would be perfect, that it would be everything you wanted. that he would take care of you and want you as badly as you want him. your crown title of hopeless romantic had finally paid off.

another thought stirs as he keeps kissing you. it’s feverish and hot and makes you warm all over—how long it’s been since he’s had someone, how he kisses you like he’s out of practice. his mouth is so hard against yours it almost hurts, but you welcome the pain. it’s like he’s proving to you that he’s really there now, that nothing can tear him away from you.

but then he does pull away. you catch your breath, hands traveling to his face and running your fingers through his hair. andrew’s pretty eyes close and you cherish it—that you made him feel like that. he leans into your touch, head resting against your hand while you both take long, heavy breaths.

andrew leans in, pressing your foreheads together.

“i-i’ve wanted to do that,” another breath. you feel butterflies continuously emerge and flutter around your chest and your stomach, all the way down to between your legs. “since your first letter.”

and then you can’t resist—leaning back in for another hard, wet kiss. you feel him shift, strong hands on your hips, but staying firmly there, not traveling despite how much you wish they would. he’s been polite again, you think. waiting for you to give him permission.

“you can-” you start, but andrew keeps pressing kisses against your neck that make it hard to finish your sentence. “you can touch me.” you expect his hands to spread—grope and grab and tease until you’re begging for more. for him to be impatient and hungry and not stop until he’s inside of you.

“i can’t believe you’re real,” he says quietly, one hand moving up to your waist and touching the soft skin there gently. he traces up your arms and then down before intertwining his fingers with yours. you stare up at him, stupid as ever. every time you think you know anything about andrew, he proves you wrong.

“i can’t believe you are, either,” you say, tilting your head up for another kiss. a short, chaste one this time. “you’re just as nice as i knew you’d be.”

“you think i’m nice?” he asks, voice low. you nod in response, words escaping you. you settle to answer with another kiss, hands going to his shoulders to steady yourself, tugging and pulling on his bottom lip with your teeth.

you push up until he understands, and he uses two huge hands to get you into his lap, sitting up with his back against your couch. you straddle him, trying your hardest to not lose your train of thought as you realize how hard he is against you.

“i think you’re too nice,” you tease, unsure where you’re finding the confidence. under you, andrew looks spacey and flushed and all kissed out, but you don’t plan to stop. you lean in to press kisses to his cheeks and work your way to his jaw and neck. when you stop to look at him again, he looks hopelessly up at you, and you think he’s waiting again, waiting for permission to do something. “i think you’re so nice that you’re not telling me everything you’ve wanted to do to me these last few years.”

the way andrew looks up at you after you said that—god. you wish you could engrain it into your memory. you’re not someone who does this often, but you might just be good at figuring out how to get andrew to crack. he looks up with some of the hunger you’d imagined there’d be, and it makes something stir inside of you.

it feels strange to be wanted the way andrew wants you right now. you’re just not used to it, not entirely sure that you’d ever feel this way. that someone would ever make you feel this way.

your thoughts are wiped again when he pulls you into another kiss, and you deepen it, moaning into his mouth. you’re being so loud that your older neighbor might be able to hear you, but you can hardly bring yourself to care right now. andrew is quiet, like you thought he would be, but each soft grunt and heavy sigh is enough to make your entire body tingle.

you think you’re being better at staying quiet yourself when andrew scoops you up into his arms, carrying you like it’s nothing for him. you yelp loudly, forgetting everything for a second, realizing how lovely it feels to be carried by him. he leads you two to your bedroom, setting you down gently on the bed.

you stare at him, hovering above you, wondering how you’ll get to do this. how you’ll get his clothes off and watch out for his hurt hand and that you’ll finally get to feel him inside of you—when he just stops moving.

andrew looks up and around your bedroom, craning his neck to take in all of it. you’re not sure why, stuck in a position under him that forces you to just watch.

“is everything okay, andrew?” when you say his name, he turns back to stare down at you.

“yes. yes, it is. it’s just-” he pauses, looking back up and then down. the room is decorated with lots of pretty frames. there’s yellow curtains on the windows and your sheets are yellow under you too, just like he’d suspected. seeing it in real life almost sends him back to years ago—the first time he’d wondered what your bedroom looks like. the place from where you write your letters, the place you read them. “it looks just like i thought it would.”

and just like every other part of tonight, your reaction continues to surprise him. you smile and then laugh, holding onto his shoulder even tighter.

“spend a lot of time thinking about my bedroom, huh?” you tease, and he remains just as confused as ever.

you are such a conundrum. andrew thinks that he wants you so badly he can’t form a proper thought—and then the thoughts merge and blend and anger at the very idea that you’re so trusting of him. you should be more careful. you shouldn’t trust anyone how much you’re trusting him right now—inviting him inside your home, letting him into your bedroom.

and then you pull him down for another kiss and it all washes away like letters in the sand.

eventually he does pull away—though it takes an enormous amount of self control. the words you said on the couch haven’t completely left him yet and he still needs to answer you. you claw and pull at his shirt so he lets you take it off of him, you trace a hand down his chest, stopping at his heart and pressing your palm flat against him.

you’re staring, he thinks, but you’re really just admiring. taking in every detail, every scar and bruise so you can ask him about it later, moving your fingers down his abs and biting your lip while you stare daggers at his chest.

he moves away from your touch though, as sad as it makes you.

“you wanted to know everything i’ve thought about you?” andrew says, and the words make you tense up—thighs clenching, walls fluttering just from words alone. your fingers tighten around his bicep where you’ve been holding on, and you nod up at him dumbly. “can i show you?”

your head falls back onto your pillow with a thud. you nod again.

you let andrew set the pace—he peels off your clothes and you lift your hips and raise your arms in compliance. he starts with a kiss to your stomach that makes you whine, fingers leaving his skin and grabbing onto your sheets instead just to have something to hold on to.

you’re embarrassingly wet—you already know you are. it’s almost painful how badly you want him, even against better judgement that tells you that you could have, at the very least, taken things slowly.

you guess andrew just brings it out of you.

his kisses move south and you brace yourself, every muscle tensing up in anticipation. andrew is silent except for his deep breaths and somehow, with each one deeper than the last, they make your entire body shudder in anticipation. when he finally gets to your leaking cunt, you hear it. a strangled moan, sounding painful and from the depth of his chest and filled with want and need. just from looking at you. you can’t imagine what he’ll sound like when—

“this is what i thought about. this is always what i thought about.”

and then andrew licks down the length of your cunt with the flat of his tongue, and you can’t think about anything else anymore. he’s relentless, exploring you with his mouth like he’s a man starved. you can hear the noises, obscene and sloppy and wet as they are.

and then you feel it—his mouth around your clit while one finger prods at your tight opening. your back rises off the bed but he holds you down with one huge hand over your stomach. his finger slips inside you more easily than he thought it would. though you’re wetter than he imagined, he doesn’t stop teasing your clit.

your wetness coats everything—his tongue, his lips, his chin. your thighs are wet too, and he’s sure he can get your yellow sheets soaked too if he could tease you long enough. but he’s been incredibly patient all these years, unsure if he can wait any longer to get what he’s wanted.

his hand keeps you pinned down while his mouth stays on your clit and then andrew adds another finger and you thrash up against him. it’s useless against the weight of his hand holding you down, but your body moves anyways, hands wrangling into his brown curls, likely making a complete mess of them. you keep pulling and he moans between your legs and the vibration makes you thrash harder, a completely exhilarating cycle.

when he finally releases you from his grip, you think the other hand will explore up and down your body, but true to form, you’re wrong. andrew finds your hand and holds onto it, lacing your fingers with his while he keeps going.

when adds a third finger, you realize that he’s saying something against you. you can’t quite make it out with your heart thudding in your ears and how loud you’re being, but then it becomes a little clearer—

“you taste even better than i thought you would-” and you can’t stop it, the tension in your stomach winding tighter and tighter before it snaps altogether. a white hot heat washes through your body and makes you shake even harder, but andrew’s hold on you keeps you completely grounded. he works you through it, not stopping even once, not until you’re trying your hardest to pull away from him. you try to catch your breath but it’s useless. your head feels completely empty.

incoherent, you grab at andrew, murmuring something about inside, please, and he really tries to stay level headed. but one glance at your naked, writhing body and your expression while you beg for him is enough to tip him over the edge.

resisting you requires a level of self control that he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to have.

andrew doesn’t think he’s ever had any self control when it comes to you. it’s why he did this, isn’t it? showed up at your hospital with your sweet letter folded up and somehow convinced you, without saying much of anything at all, to trust him and let him back into your life. he doesn’t even know how he did it—he can’t recall most of what he said to you. it plays in his head like a movie, like how your letters used to.

he doesn’t know what he did to deserve your trust, just knows that he’ll do whatever he has to in order to keep it forever.

andrew’s thoughts about keeping you cloud him while he lifts up your legs, manhandling your body while you squeal under him. he pushes your knees to your chest and lets your legs hang in the air while he hovers over you. all he can think about is getting inside of you—-giving you exactly what you’ve been begging for, fulfilling every fantasy he’s had about you in the last three years. the noises you’ll make. how tight and wet and warm you’ll feel around him. how you’ll look with his cum dripping out of-

“andrew, please, please,” you plead, and he’s not sure that you understand exactly what you’re asking for. it’s good that it’s him you picked for those letters, good that he’s the one who tracked you down.

someone else, well, he thinks, lining himself up with your soaking wet entrance, someone else might have had bad intentions with you. not andrew, though.

his intentions for you are only good. intentions to keep you happy and safe and move you away from this tiny apartment and make sure you get the job that you want, no matter who he has to threaten in order to do so. intentions to keep everything taken care of so the only thing you ever have to worry about again is him, just like you’d done for all those years when you wrote to him.

and as he slips inside, he knows those letters are in this bedroom somewhere, that this bed is where you read them, that these were the pretty hands that held his letters and these were the pretty eyes that read them.

you stare at him while he hovers over you, not pushing in just yet. andrew’s dick is just like the rest of him—thick and broad and so wide that you don’t know how you’ll be able to walk tomorrow. there’s veins too, just like his arms, and it’s all you can think about with him enclosed over you.

when he pushes his thick head past your fluttering walls, you make a noise like nothing he’s ever heard before. pure want and heat wrapped up with pleasure and pain. you keep begging for more but he’s not sure you can even handle it—but who is andrew to deny you?

he pushes further inside of you, now half way, and you cry out. andrew leans in to kiss you again, swallowing the noise and letting you moan against his lips.

another thrust and he’s almost all the way in. he pulls out and pushes back in, and then he starts his rhythm. your tits bounce with every thrust and he watches entranced, until his eyes go back to where you and him meet. in this position, on his knees with you folded underneath him, he can see it perfectly.

it’s enough to make him finish instantly. you look completely fucked out under him, crying out with each push of his hips.

your open your wet eyes and glance up at him. through wet lashes and blinking eyes, you get out a few words, stopped by each thrust.

“is it-” you gasp, words getting caught in your throat because andrew is so deep inside of you that you can feel him in your stomach and your chest. “is it what you imagined, andrew?”

“god, yes,” he says, and the sound is so perfect to you. it comes out broken, in the form of a gasp and a moan combined, and you want to hear it again and again. he says your name like it’s a prayer grounding him to you and you keep your arms wrapped around his neck, holding him close to you and bringing him in for another kiss. you can feel andrew’s pace start to stutter, his moans getting louder and his grip on you getting tighter. you hold his face in your hands, locking eyes again.

“inside, andrew, please, i want it inside, please, please,” and again, andrew thinks to himself, like some besotted fool, who is he to deny you? he releases whatever inhibitions he had left and fills you up with his cum—rivulets almost never ending. it leaks out around his dick, messing up your sheets and staining your thighs and making a mess of everything. he hears your heavy breaths and looks to see you smiling sweetly up at him.

and then he collapses next to you.

“hi andrew,” you say quietly next to him. your hands go to his, playing with his fingers and running the pad of your thumb over the veins on his hand. “was it how you thought it’d be?”

“it was better,” he says, breathless. you giggle and lean in to press a kiss to his cheek—and for a moment, he forgets everything. the circumstances of your introduction and the way he’d discovered you long forgotten for a few heartbeats. just you and the sound of your laugh and the promise of the future he wants with you before him.

“there’s still some things i thought about that we didn’t get to yet,” you tease, and he wonders, briefly, what he’s going to do with you.

and then you two hear it—scratching at your closed bedroom door.

“oh god,” you say, sitting up in bed.

you groan a little since your thighs are sore and it’s a wet, sticky mess between them. andrew keeps his hand on your arm and helps you sit up, and joins you in the position, like he’s preparing to help if you need something.

“warden, stop,” you say, but he doesn’t listen. you turn to andrew. “i’m gonna get him.” you try to move your legs and put weight on them, but you feel your knees buckle immediately, with andrew rushing to your side to help you back into bed.

“oh my god. you broke me.”

“i’ll get him. just-just sit down.”

andrew opens the door and picks up your cat like it’s second nature, bringing him to you on the bed before getting in right beside you. your cat is sweet but there’s not many people over at your apartment, and you worry for a moment that he won’t be nice to andrew when he wants your attention. but wardy doesn’t move from his position, staying curled up again andrew’s chest and arm, completely at ease.

“he likes you. that makes sense,” you say, smiling up at him, leaning in to pet wardy’s head.

but andrew doesn’t understand.

“warden. i thought you said his name was wardy?”

“that’s just a nickname.”

“why warden?”

“oh well. it’s silly, um-”

“tell me.”

“well, uh. well, warden is just the letters in andrew. uh, rearranged.”

“oh.”

“i’m sorry. i’m so sorry, is that creepy? i was really projecting, i guess, when i got him. i just loved your letters so much and i’ve never had a boyfriend or anything like that-”

“do you think we should get married?”

thanks for reading! ♡

[smuttyjane]

Bound by Fire│(18+) Chapter 1

│Recom Jake Sully x Female Mangkwan Reader

│Artwork: xstarcutx&soulofeywa

│Chapter 1│

│Word count: 7.4k

│Summary: You spot a strange sky man during a raid. His badge reads "Jake Sully" but he needs no name since he belongs to you now.

│MDNI Warnings: explicit smut, au, kidnapping, p in v, gun play, knife play, praise/degradation kink, possessiveness, abuse of power, teasing, sexual tension, dom/dom, multiple orgasms, oral (m), overstimulation, hand cuffs, choking, biting, slapping, spitting, blood, death, kuru cutting

Your eyes blink open slowly, wincing from the bright sunlight shining through the tent. The quiet sounds of bones rattling fill the air as a chilly breeze passes through the entrance. Soft, plush furs lay underneath your bare back, caressing your skin gently.

As you sit up slowly, your fingers tangle in the fibers to steady yourself. Rubbing sleep from your eyes, the blurriness fades away.

A fire burns low in the center of the tsahik tent. Embers crackle as they cover the expanse of the room in harsh shadows. Warmth runs through your body, but the air sends shivers down your spine. Ash blows through the cracks of the shelter coating everything it can in the white power.

You take a deep breath, forcing your mind to wake up fully. Willing your eyes to stay open, you push yourself up to stand while physically shaking the tiredness from your limbs. Breathing out a huff of warm air, you make your way over to a clean bucket of water you kept full.

The water reflects your image back to you. Dark blue skin peeks through a sea of ash and red where sweat from the fire washed it away. A bone carved into a curved, sharp spike pierced through your bottom lip. Large circles made of the same material stretch the skin of your lobes, while smaller ones pierce near the point.

Long, dark hair lays messy against your head. Bangs frame your face; the rest of your hair falls to your breasts. Your kuru rested against the curve of your back; bones were braided through the hair.

Sighing, you bring your hands up towards the bucket, creating a makeshift cup before splashing the frigid water up onto your face. The water runs down the length of your arms, dripping from your elbows onto the ground below. You relish the way the liquid refreshes your skin, hydrating you even in the midst of the dusty, barren wasteland you inhabit.

Returning your gaze back to the water, the ripples distort the once crystal-clear image. An overwhelming feeling of disgust runs through your body. What stares back is the weakest version of yourself.

No ash or red paint covers the skin of your face. Dark blue skin highlights the yellow of your large eyes. One pupil dilated, the other a thin slit. Scarred skin lay underneath, the cause of the different pupil size.

Fire had always called to you, even since you were a little girl. It burned through the soft innocent skin of your face on a cold winter night after your parents had left a fire unattended for warmth. The heat left red raw skin in its wake.  

Memories flash through your mind. The people laughed and pointed at you. Your parents hid you out of shame. Kids your age made jokes about you. They called you weird, different, strange.

That no longer mattered. Your parents are dead and the rest of those people bow down to you now.

Tsahik of the Mangkwan. The ruler of the ash people. You made these people what they are today. You instilled discipline and respect in them. You gave them something real to worship. Something they could see, something they could hear in exchange for a fake belief that provided hope for people who were weak.

You refused to be weak. You made the people strong. We were not evil because we do not pray to a goddess that did not come to save us and our land. We are evil because it is how you survive.

After the volcano burned through your forest, and you realized Eywa would not come, you took matters into your own hands. You killed your weak-minded father, the Olo’eyktan of your people, and you feel no remorse to this day. As the people grieved for others and their land, they needed a strong leader to guide them.

You took control over the people, redirecting their anger and hatred towards the Great Mother. You learned the way of the fire, embracing it instead of running. A plant-derived substance allowed you to freely touch the scorching element.

You became the fire. There was no Eywa, there was you.

You worshiped the fire, but the people worshiped you.

The people painted their skin red, coated their skin in ash, and became fearless. You helped them rebuild. They now thrived under your authority. They were loyal to you. They owed everything to you for your selfless deeds.

You shake your head, clearing the thoughts from your mind as you turn away from the bucket of water. A fur sat close by that you used to pat the skin of your face dry.

On the wall sat many wooden hand carved shelves which held medicine, salves, pastes, anything that would be needed for wounds or spiritual guidance. Along with it sat a half full jar of ash, and vibrant petals of a red flower.

Grabbing the jar of ash, you open it carefully, setting it on the short table in front of you. You rub the ash into the soft skin of your face, your fingers brush across the bumps on your skin.

Scarification. When you became the leader, you dug out the bioluminescent spots along your body in protest of Eywa. The people followed your lead. It only made you stronger. Enduring the pain and healing process fueled you with hatred and anger.

Closing the jar of ash, you grab a singular red petal from the wooden bowl. A piece of rough obsidian sits close by, forged from the heat of the volcano, and you use it to softly grind the flower into a powder. A slick oil is used to create a paint consistency which you use to draw a thin triangle from your hairline to the tip of your nose. You continue to drag the paint down your chin, and between your breasts.

Once you are done, you give the oil time to dry on your skin. You enjoyed doing this every morning. The art of painting your body makes you feel unique. The oils from your skin blend the ash, the red paint is a beautiful contrast from the white.

You dip your fingers into the foggy bucket of water, removing the remaining pigment from the flower, and walk towards where you left your clothing the night before.

The people gather most nights for dinner, or ceremonies. You guide them through the fire with hallucinogens to help them find their true meaning. As their bodies contort due to the strength of the powder substance, thank you’s fall from their lips. It fills you with pleasure to know that you give them purpose in this fucked up world.

A top with red wire and patterned beads drapes over your body. The wires tie around your back and around your neck. A small loincloth made with furs wraps around your waist, sitting low on your hips and tying around the base of your tail. Custom red pieces carved from red lake crystals flare around the tips of your ears.

The set of knives you carried were made the same. You run your finger along the edge of the curved blade until the tip digs into the pad of your fingertip. Reminiscing about the first time you drug the sharp blade through someone’s chest. The blood blends in with the crystals, but it all tastes the same.

A head pops in from the entrance to the tent unbeknownst to you.

“Tsahik?”

The distraction caused you to nick yourself against the blade. A small bead of blood gathers on your finger, but you lick it away, enjoying the metallic taste.

“Yes,” you ask, turning around to meet the face of whoever was speaking.

“Patrols spotted the rogue ikran that went missing a few days ago,” the ash woman says.

“And?”

“It bled out deep into the forest with a strange wound to the chest.”

“Strange how?”

“We don’t know.”

“Show me,” you say, sliding the curved knives through the ties of your loincloth at your back and beginning to walk towards the flap of your tent.

“Yes tsahik.”

You walk hastily through the village, grinning as the people bow down to you. Their knees dig into the dry cracked ground; dust settles in their hair. They paint their skin unique to themselves, but their body is covered in ash all the same.

Your people. Your clan. Each and every one of them belonged to you.

“We ride. Saddle up,” you say, motioning for them to stand and follow.

Your shoulders slump slightly; your hips press forward as you walk past them with your head held high. Bringing your gaze up from the people, you take in your village. Burnt trees surround the landscape. Large, rough rocks jut out from the ground beneath. Smaller tents line the sides of the path; your tent sits in the back center towering over the rest.

In the distance, fires rage on even with nothing left to burn. The breeze stirs the embers from the volcano, lighting fire to any little thing it can cling to. Patrols continue to fly through the air, circling the village to alert strange activity or unfamiliar people. Their ikrans screech out into the bright sky.

Tsahik is the only one who bonds to the nightwraith. A display of power and authority within the Mangkwan clan. The rest ride ikrans.

You reach for your queue from over your shoulder, bringing it to the space in front of you. The nightwraith’s eyes dilate, calling out from the familiar bond of his rider. Your hand slides down the length of his neck, caressing his rough scaly skin before you push yourself onto the back of the winged animal.

As you situate yourself, other ash people mount their rides, ready for your word. They live for you. They breathe for you. They wait for you. They worship you.

“Take me to the ikran,” you say, looking to your right at the ash woman who came to find you in your tent.

“Yes tsahik.”

She takes flight, and you send your nightwraith after her.

The nightwraith syncs to your mind, taking you wherever you instruct him to. The wind blows through your hair; goosebumps line your skin as the air grows colder the higher you climb in the sky. The sun sits at your back, warming your skin despite the protest from the cold air.

It does not take long to reach the area of the forest the ikran laid to rest in. The stark contrast between your village and the forest was never shocking. Multiple shades of green span over miles and miles of tall trees. All kinds of plants lined the forest floor. Animals jumped from branch to branch; insects crawled through the tall thick grass.

This was how your home looked before. An extension of the thriving forest. Now, no animals or plants survived there. Your people survive because you do what is necessary even if others might deem it as animalistic or wrong.

What is right or wrong for the people who go against everything they have ever known? They were foolish to think it changed your opinion.

The ash woman signals to a clearing between the trees where something large has fallen through the leaves, leaving a gaping hole in its place. Patrols stay in the air, watching for anything suspicious. You fly through, shadows immediately fall over you and a shiver runs down your spine. There was no sun to warm your skin this deep in the forest.

It was hard to tell what lurked in the shadows when everything was hidden.

Your nightwraith lands a few feet away from the ikran and you slide off the back, disconnecting your kuru from his. Walking slowly towards the animal, you remain on high alert.

You crouch down, examining the deep wound through the animal’s chest. Straight through the heart. One of the curved knives behind your back glides against the ropes of your loincloth, snagging against the ties as you slide it out. The tip digs through the wound, finding the foreign object lodged deep in the tissue.

Pulling it out, it was something you had never seen before. You roll the strange, bloodied object around in your hand, before placing it into your mouth. Your teeth make contact with the hard material, and your mouth fills with a copper taste.

Metal. The sky people did this.

You knew the humans were on Pandora, but they never ventured far enough to your village. No one dared to step foot in the dead lands.

Their destruction caused chaos among the other clans, but that only made it easier for you. While the people were weak you raided their villages, sacrificing their people by cutting their kurus at the base, and burning their bodies. Some of them you took as slaves. The ones that you deemed to be stronger than the rest. The ones that showed no fear.

The sound of someone speaking pulled you away from your thoughts.

“Tsahik. The Wind Traders are passing through. Others have brought down one ship not far from here. Come quick.”

You push yourself from the ground, sliding your knife back through the ties of your loincloth and you drop the strange metal onto the ground. Quickly bonding with your nightwraith, you pull yourself onto his back and instruct him to take flight.

His wings beat rapidly as he approaches the hole in the trees. Quickly tucking them in to avoid any damage, he snaps them back out once through. The nightwraith remains steady as the wind carries him far.

The sun sat low on the horizon by now, the moon rose to take its place, and stars begin to sparkle if you look close enough. Oranges, reds, and pinks fill the sky, the warmth of the sun was disappearing. Now was the perfect time for the fire to burn through the bodies of fellow clans.

The fire burning through the trees in the distance makes you laugh seeing that it almost blends in perfectly. Fire destroys any and all things, and that is what makes you stronger than everyone else.

You make your way to the burning ship before landing your winged animal and sliding off the back. Debris glided through the air, the familiar dust of ash and smoke rose from the fire. The ship was crushed from where it had made contact with the forest floor. The scorching heat bent their support beams, and you could hear the wood crack and splinter under the pressure.

The wind traders scream as your people drag them by their sensitive queues. It sounded like music to your ears. Many fought back. Kicking, screaming, scratching, reaching for weapons, but it was the ash people’s responsibility to show their dominance over them. They knew this.

If they were dumb enough to lose their lives, then they were too weak to survive with you anyways.

“Grab everything you can, and kill these people,” you instruct. Your voice boomed through the clearing; the vibrations ran through your body. The thrill of your raids was something you never got tired of. Adrenaline pumped through your veins; your heart beat out of your chest. Your breathing turned rapid from the excitement. The ash people do exactly as you say which adds to the pleasure of your evils.

With your back turned to the tree line, an ash man brings a wind trader down to her knees in front of you. Running your hand along her jaw, you grab a blade from behind you, bringing it down to slice her kuru off. She slumps to the ground with a quiet thud, and you make a show of your kill.

You whoop out with the cut kuru held high in the sky, and the ash people cheer for their tsahik. A large grin pulls at your lips from their praises.

Something rushes past your ear through the air, making a woosh sound from the speed it flies at. An ash man drops dead to the ground right in front of you. Your body turns quickly and sharp towards the tree line where it came from.

Your gaze scans along the vastness of the forest catching on the slightest movement of a body ducking behind a fallen tree. A grin pulls at your lips as you speak.

“Show yourself,” you yell while staring directly at whoever was hiding in the dense forest. The beady yellow eyes stare back at you in the darkness. You stand there, waiting patiently before you begin to move closer.

“Don’t be shy,” you say, dragging out your words. Your body moves with your hips; your feet press softly into the grass. Your ears perk up at the sound of static and soft whispers as you make your way towards the trees.

The movements halt as you spot the person begin to stand up, revealing a sky man. He steps out from behind the tree and you analyze him. He looked like one of the people, but he was not. Your curiosity in him was peaking.

Bioluminescent marks lined his body, making him glow under the moonlight. The fire that burned behind you casted shadows across his face. Four fingers and toes, unlike your three. What you assumed to be a weapon rested against his shoulder, pointing directly at you.

You do not fear him. A lousy sky man would never put fear into your mind or heart.

His hair was long and messy, draping over his face where sweat began to bead along his forehead. He wore clothing with different kinds of greens, some kind of camouflage to hide the sky man in the forest. A thick vest sat across his large chest protecting his vital organs from animals and the people.

You walk closer towards him; his eyes never leave you. Your gaze catches his as you lean closer to his face.

“Let’s not overreact,” you whisper, running your finger along the cold barrel of his weapon. You push it down until it points towards the ground. Circling around him, you grab his kuru, running the thick braid through your fingers before letting it drop.

You push the sleeve of his clothing up, revealing a dark tattoo that ran down his bicep. Your nail traces the lines, leaving goosebumps along his skin where you touch. Once you make your way back to stand in front of him, you run your hand along his jaw. He flinches away from your touch but ultimately settles.

“What is your name Sky man?”

“Sully. Colonel Jake Sully.” His voice was deep and husky. He had to have been an older man, but his body was young. A man of power if he has a title with his interesting name.

“Jake Sully,” you say, barely above a whisper as you let the name run off your tongue. The hand that rested on his jaw runs down his shoulder, and down the length of his arm. His muscles tense under your touch and you smirk.

He was easy on the eyes. This sky man would make a wonderful addition to your home. A pleasurable decoration. You may just keep him for your personal use.

Your gaze drops to his weapon. His finger rested on the trigger; a pistol sat in a holster connected to the belt he wore around his pants.

“What is this you use to kill my people with Jake Sully,” you ask, holding the weapon up that sat in his grip between the two bodies.

“It is an assault rifle used by the Recombinants,” he says. Your eyes dilate from his words.

“And if I go look at his body, will I find a small piece of metal?”

“Yes.”

An image flashes in your mind of the ikran lying dead on the forest floor. A gaping hole through its chest from this unfamiliar weapon. Your gaze meets his, a devious smile pulled at your lips.

“Tie the sky man up,” you yell, talking to your people but never looking away from him. He shows no fear from your words, and that excites you. What would the sky man fear? You planned to figure that out.

An ash woman rushes towards the sky man, yanking his wrists behind his back as she ties rope tight to restrain him. The gun falls from his hands, and she kicks the back of his knee, pushing him to his knees in front of you.

You pick it up, turning it around in your hands as you examine it up close. Cold metal met your touch. It was hard and unforgiving as you ran your hand along the length of the barrel. You mimic the way he held it and place your finger on the trigger.

“Like this, Jake sully,” you ask, showing him the way you hold the gun in your hands as his name slides off your tongue.

“Just like that,” he says. The tone of his voice sends shivers down your spine.

You point the barrel of the gun into the trees, and you press the trigger. A shot rings out, echoing through the clearing as a flash of light fills the dark forest. Excitement runs through you. You press the trigger and hold. Multiple shots ring out. The recoil from the power of the gun pushed back against your shoulder harshly but it didn’t matter. You laugh manically.

Your gaze finds his and he is smirking up at you. He already looked like he was worshipping you and it lit your body on fire.

“Feels good don’t it,” he says, his voice seductive and thick as he watches you.

You stare down at him as a heat builds inside you from this remarkable man. Although you say nothing, you talk to your people.

“Wrap this up, and bring the sky man too,” you say to the ash people, but your gaze never leaves his.

An ash man moves behind this mysterious man, pushing the woman out of the way, and grabs the base of his kuru, pulling him from the forest floor. Dirt stains his pants, and his hair falls into his face. Before the ash man walks away with him, you bring your hand up to his face, pushing the hair out of his eyes and running your finger along his sharp jaw.

“I will have so much fun with you sky man,” you whisper, biting your bottom lip as the words fall from your mouth.

You wave the ash man away and he begins to push Jake towards an ikran. You watch as the man lifts him onto the back of the winged animal and slides on behind him. They don’t hesitate to take flight, and you walk over to your respected animal.

You bond with your nightwraith, jumping on to the back of him before you take flight right after them. You waste no time.

The moon sat high in the sky, casting a soft glow over the expanse of dead land below you. The eternal flame of your village burns bright, guiding your way back home even in the night as smoke fills the air. Jake Sully and the ash man fly just ahead of you, and the closer you get to the village, the more heat pools in your lower belly.

You land with a hard thud on the cracked, dry ground of the village. Sliding off your nightwraith, you disconnect your kuru and rub gently along the scales that sat on top of his head. He nuzzles into your touch, comforted by his rider.

The ash man stands not too far away with the sky man.

“Tsahik,” the ash man says, bowing down while still holding onto the arms of your new prisoner.

“Bring him to my tent,” you say, gesturing towards the towering shelter at the far center of the village.

You walk in front of the sky man as you make your way down the path. Your hips lead your body, and you sway in anticipation. Pushing past the flap to the tent, the ash man pushes him inside before leaving as quick as he came.

The tent was dark now; the fire lit the large room dimly. Shadows cast along the far walls as they flicker creating an ominous feeling. The fire called to you; it reached for you eager for your return. A breeze blows through the tent, and a shiver runs down your spine.

You turn around to face him. A small smile sat on his lips as you made your way over to him. Circling him, you pull a knife out from your loincloth and cut the rope that sat tight around his wrists. The skin was red and raw, but he would be fine.

“What is all this you wear sky man,” you ask, running your hands against the vest that sat snug on his chest. Buckles hold it together around either side of his body, but you quickly unclip them. He reaches for it, willingly pulling it over his head.

Underneath he wore a tight dark green t-shirt that clung to his slim body. It rode up slightly from when he lifted his arms to remove his vest, and sharp lines create a v just above his waistband. His thumbs rested in the loops of his pants; the weight of his arms made his biceps bulge.

Standing in front of him now, you bring your knife up to his chest, slicing through the shirt that covered his dark blue body.

“This too, Jake Sully,” you whisper. Your gaze catches his as he slides the sleeves down his arms before letting it fall to the ground behind him.

Slick pools in your loincloth at the sight of his muscular body, but you ignore that for right now.

As if he could read your thoughts, he smirks down at you, laughing quietly.

“What is so funny,” you ask, bringing the knife back up to the soft skin of his chest. You press deep and drag down an inch quickly. His body recoils from the cut and his gaze drops to his chest where blood runs down his body.

Still no fear from the sky man. What a shame.

You watch, biting your lip as you fight the urge to lick it away from his skin. Why give him pleasure if he was not good?

You wanted to taste him. Your desire was too strong.

Bringing yourself down to your knees, you look up at him from where you sat. His mouth hung open in surprise as he watched your movements closely.

You lean close to the skin of his lower abdomen; your warm breath sends shivers down his spine. Your tongue presses just above the waistband of his pants where the blood pools. Licking a stripe up his stomach, you slowly pull yourself up to the wound you inflicted on him.

Sucking against the gash, he winces, but you lick away the pain quickly after. You savor the metallic and salty taste in your mouth as you pull away from his skin. His dark blue body glistened from your saliva.

Blood stained your teeth as you smiled up at the sky man that towered over you. His lean built frame casts shadows over your body. His breath catches in his throat from the sight of you like this.

Insane. Manic. Demented. Frenzied. Sexy. Seductive. Lustful.

He reaches down to grip your face with his large hand and leans down to place a hungry kiss on your lips. You welcome him as his tongue slides against your mouth, smirking against his when you know he tastes the copper twang of his own blood.

Jake’s tongue explores your mouth, eager to feel every inch of you. Your tongue slides against his as you bite gently onto the wet muscle. You pull away from the kiss to catch your breath, your slick leaked down your thighs.

“Pleasure me Sky man,” you whisper, finding his gaze as you reach for his hand to guide him further into the tent. His pupils dilate from your words; he walks close behind.

“I thought you’d never ask,” he says, laughing softly as you practically drag him over to the fire where the furs you sleep on rest on the ground of your tent.

You remove your loincloth and top swiftly, throwing them to the side before you lay down on the furs. You propped yourself up on your elbows, opening your legs wide as you watch the Sky man. He reaches his hand down to remove the holstered gun, but you stop him.

“I want you to use it. On me,” you say, smirking crazily at him. He doesn’t seem shocked that you want that, instead it looks like a fire had been lit behind his eyes.

He hands you the pistol before removing his belt, an idea popping up in his head as he sets it close by. The button of his pants becomes undone, and you watch carefully as he releases his cock from its restraints.

The large, hard cock slapped up against his lower belly, his precum mixes with the blood that runs down his chest. A moan threatens to slip past your lips just from the sight of him. Your core aches to be filled, your slick pools on the furs beneath you.

Jake brings himself down to his knees in between your legs and takes the pistol back from you. He places one hand at the bend of your knee, pushing your leg back to open your legs wider for him. He leans down to place a rough kiss on your lips, and you gasp from the cold contact of him rubbing the metal gun through your folds.

Your slick runs down the material, allowing him to slide it up to your clit easily. He rubs slow, soft circles onto your bundle of nerves as he sucks your bottom lip, biting hard at the skin until blood fills your mouth.

He circles your entrance nudging softly with the short barrel. The cold metal stretches you wide; the burn was something you had never felt before.

You break the kiss, throwing your head back, moans leave your lips as your fingers grip onto the skin of his bicep. Unintentionally pushing against him while your nails dig into his skin, he groans from the pleasurable pain.

“Take it like you wanted it,” he growls. His gaze falls in between your legs, watching your greedy cunt swallow the metal inside you. Jake continues to push the gun inside of you, until no more could fit.

Your breath came in short, sharp gasps. Stars burst in your vision. The pleasure was immense. Before you can fully recover, he begins to thrust the barrel in and out of you. The cold metal turned warm in your wet walls, but it slid in easier the wetter you became.

“What a dirty wet slut,” he whispers. His gaze slides up your body. The muscles in your stomach tensed repeatedly as the gun filled you up, your nipples hardened, your head leaned back, your mouth was gaping open, and whimpers left your mouth over and over again.

“Yes, sky man. I am,” you moan as the barrel pressed against your cervix.

“What’s my name,” he snarls, sliding in and out of you faster. When you don’t respond he drops your leg and slaps your face hard. The skin of your cheek began to sting, but you loved it.

“Sky man,” you say, smirking slightly as you continue to moan from the slick metal pushed through your entrance. A heat was building in your lower stomach; your climax was bound to rock through your body soon enough.

“Wrong answer,” he says. He pulls his hand back, slapping your face again. Jake pushes the gun deep inside you, the pressure against your cervix makes your head spin.

“Jake, fuck Jake,” you shout. You push on his arm hard, and your fingers dig in until blood drips from his elbow.

“There you go,” he grunts, running his thumb along the red marks forming on your skin as he slides the barrel away from your cervix. His thrusts speed up quicker, your slick leaks onto his fingers as he fucks you with his gun.

Your entrance clenches around it, sucking it in with every thrust. Your eyes close tight, your body begins to shake, your legs close around Jake’s body, and your cum gushes out.

“Cum all on it, babygirl,” Jake whispers, slowing his thrusts as he rides out your high.

Once you come down from your climax, you bring your gaze up to his. You watch as he slides the gun out of you and brings it up to his mouth. He licks your cum off the metal that glistened in the light of the fire. His body glowed; it called to you.

Jake, the sky man, belonged to you.

A crazed look glints in his big yellow eyes as the embers cast a soft glow around his body. You look down to find his cock pulsing, raw and red, ready to be stuffed inside you. But first, you wanted to make him shake from your touch.

You push yourself off the furs, crawling towards him on your hands and knees. Grabbing the base of his cock, you spit on the tip before circling it around with your thumb. Soft whimpers leave his mouth from your gentle touches.

“You’re all mine now sky man,” you say before leaning down and placing a soft kiss on his tip. You run your tongue along the underside of his shaft, biting against the textured skin.

Once you reach the tip again, you slide him along your tongue. Every ridge and bump of his cock is mapped by your mouth. He groans as you lick small stripes along the slit on his tip.

You slide his cock deep down your throat, and when you don’t think you can go any further, you swallow him deeper. You gag around the base of his cock; your mouth touches the skin of his pelvis. Jake reaches his hand down to your head but you quickly sit up.

“No touching,” you whisper, running one finger along his jaw. You remembered he had some kind of metal restraints in his vest. You scrounge around for them and when you do find them, you hold them up for him to see.

“What is this called sky man?”

“Hand cuffs,” he says, laughing softly before quickly remembering what happened the last time he did.

You let it slide, “handcuffs.” You repeat the word, familiarizing yourself with it.

He sits forward, stretching his legs out in front of himself as you move behind him. The click of the cuffs was satisfying.

You kiss the soft skin of his ear, biting gently on the lobe before moving down his neck. You suck against the skin in between his neck and shoulder before placing many more kisses along his broad shoulders.

Circling back around to him, you arch your back to bend over in front of him, a teasing action. Your tail flicks lazily behind you. Both of your hands rest on either side of his thighs to steady yourself. You don’t waste any time as you slide his cock deep in your throat like you had before. Gagging around the base, he groans from your tight throat.

His muscles tense underneath your hands, and you dig your nails into his skin.

“Fuck, you suck me so good,” he growls. When his tip hits the back of your throat his hips buck up into your mouth. You moan around him, sending vibrations through his body.

Every time you pull him out, you swirl your tongue on his tip, lapping up the precum that dribbled out on the way up. Every time you push him back in, you slide your tongue along his shaft, adding extra pleasure.

Constant groans leave his mouth. His body was hot underneath your hands. You savored the way his cock tasted. Salty, and sweet, the perfect mix.

You graze your teeth along his shaft ever so slightly, and it leaves his cock twitching in your mouth. Spit drips down your chin, your eyes water from your constant gags, tears stream down your cheeks.

“Look at me,” he whimpers. His body squirms under your touch, and he begs you. Your gaze finds his, and he looks ruined. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his hair stuck to it. His abdomen clenched and unclenched from the pleasure you were giving him.

“I’m so close babygirl,” he says, throwing his head back as groans leave his lips. His legs begin to tremble under your hands, his cock twitches repeatedly down your throat as his chest rises and falls rapidly.

“Oh fuck,” he grunts, his entire body twitches as hot, long, thick ropes of cum shoot down your throat.

You don’t stop. Your mouth swallows his cum hungrily, but your throat fucks him even faster. As his tip slides out of your throat, you are eager to lick away the remnants of his cum before shoving his back down.

“Stop, fuck I can’t take it,” he whimpers, his thighs tense as his hands struggle with the restraints around his wrists. His tail flicks behind him quickly, his ears lay flat against his head. Jake bends his knees, bringing his legs up and tries close around your head from the overstimulation but you push them open, telling him to take it the same way he told you.

His cock never softens; it remains rock solid. You continue to suck him, adding as much suction as possible. Every time you slide him out of your throat, a loud pop sounds in the air, and he twitches.

You knew he wouldn’t last long this time. His cock was already twitching down your throat again. His tip rubs through your mouth as groans and pleas leave his lips. Spit continued to drip down your chin, gathering around your mouth leaving wet spots from where your lips graze his pelvis. You moan around him, eager for his pleasure to slide down your throat once more. The vibrations run through his body, pushing him over the edge.

“Shit,” he whimpers, another climax rocks through him. You swallow more and more cum that shoots from the tip of his sore cock. You continue to suck, riding out his high. When he begs you to stop you do this time.

You push yourself up onto your knees. He watches as you lick cum and spit off your face.

“You are no fun sky man,” you say, glaring at him because he made you stop.

“Take these off. Now,” he growls, tugging against the restraints at his wrists.

You pick up the key, and he turns for you to unlock them. Once they slide off, he is quick to move behind you. He pushes your back rough and you land on your hands and knees.

Your gaze follows his movements as he reaches for the belt he laid to the side earlier.

“Don’t try to run,” he whispers, leaning down to your ear as he wraps the belt around your neck. He pulled it tight and your airway was immediately restricted. He pulled you up quickly, your back was flush with his chest. The belt was wrapped around his hand, pulling tight while his other hand slid down to your lower belly.

The tip of his cock nudged at your entrance, and he slams in without giving you any time to prepare. Not that you wanted any. His cock hits the back of your cervix before curving to brush past your sweet spot on the way out.

Jake’s pace was punishing. Hard and fast. Your ass clapped against his pelvis and his hand slid further down until his finger brushed past your clit. You struggled to get your moans out. They turned into broken sobs instead.

“I’m going to fuck you so good,” he growls. His voice was hungry with need, and desire.

“Yes, Jake please,” you manage to get out. His finger drew quick harsh circles into your bundle of nerves. The pleasure shooting through your body was nothing compared to the gun. His cock filled up every inch of you. The veins and ridges of him slid through your warm, wet and tight walls.

He tightens his grip on the belt and stars burst in your vision. You gasp for air while his face finds the crock of your neck. His cock thrusts in and out of your entrance, slamming against your cervix, brushing past your sweet spot, and pulling out until only the tip rests inside of you before doing it all over again.

“Fuck you’re so wet and tight,” he groans. His warm breath on your neck sent shivers down your spine. Your hands wrapped around your body; your fingers gripped the hard tight skin of his lower abdomen.

He grunts out as your nails dig into his skin, and he bites against the soft skin of your shoulder. He bites until blood drips down your back pooling in the dips above your ass.

“Fill me up Jake,” you whimper out, your entrance was beginning to clench tight around him. Your climax was on the verge of consuming you.

His thrusts never faltered; he kept the same pace. Each thrust delivered the same amount of pleasure as the last. The finger circling your clit slides easily from your slick, precise circles with the perfect pressure.

“Cum on my cock babygirl,” he whispers, so you do.

Your body tenses up, your legs tremble and become weak. Your entrance rhythmically clenches around his cock as his name leaves your mouth repeatedly.

His climax was fast approaching from the sensations of yours. He bites hard into your skin, sinking his fangs deep into your shoulder. You moan from the pleasurable pain as he releases his cum deep inside you. He filled you completely, his cum coats your walls.

He rides out the high the two of you share. His hand slides from your clit to where the belt wrapped around your neck and he releases the choke hold it had on you. You slump down, your hands grip onto the furs as your breath catches up with you.

He grabs a cloth that sat on a low table in the tent and wipes away the mess on your core. After he is done, he places his hand on your chest and pushes your back down onto the fur beneath you.

Leaning down, he places a soft kiss on your lips before speaking.

“You know I can’t stay. The RDA will come and look for me and if they find me here there is nothing, they won’t do to get what they want.” Worry flashes in his eyes, only for a second before they return cold again.

He stands up, bending down to grab his clothing before quickly putting it back on.

His words run through your mind. You knew he would be back, but it would be unsafe to keep your pet here if he was so important to these humans. Even if he was lying it didn’t matter because you would have him either way.

“I will tell someone to take you back to where I found you. They will go no further,” you say, sitting up to look at him.

“That would be great babygirl,” he says softly.

“Send in the next person you see.”

He nods down at you and turns around to leave.

The ground begins to rumble; a bright light shines through the gaps of the entrance to the tent. Multiple shots ring out.

Static fills the air.

“Colonel Jake Sully!”

You rush to stand up, not bothering to cover your bare body as you peak outside. Tents were on fire; the ash people were on their knees. Others who were defending their clan were shot dead, the dry, cracked ground soaked up their blood through the cracks.

You turn around; your gaze falls on Jake. His eyes were wide, his hands bawled up into fists as they clenched and unclenched at his sides.

No words left his mouth.

inspiration for the readers physical features: soulofeywa recom jake sully: xstarcutx please do not hesitate to dm for removal of any artwork!

[junebugonjupiter]

Ashes to Ashes | Jake Sully x fem!reader

Word count: 1.8k

Pairing: Jake Sully x fem!reader

Description: Your mate does not react kindly when you are taken from him by an old foe. Alternate AU where the Omatikaya took the place of the Mangkwan.

Content Warnings: A LOT, torture, kidnapping, arguing, This couple has commited heinus crimes. Reader and Jake are lowkey giving Harley Quinn and Joker.

Author's note: Hehe, this was so fun to write! Thank you @lejardinfleur for beta reading again! Based from this request!

Na’vi Words used: Nantang - viperwolf Ikran - Banshee Palulukan - Thanator

Junebug's Jake Sully Writing Event Prompt(s): Mangkwan Jake, Grumpy x Sunshine, “Who did this to you?”, and Quaritch holds reader hostage

“He will break each bone in your body and feed your flesh to Toruk. If you believe in Eywa, you may want to start praying,” you smiled widely up at the reborn Colonel as you sat on your knees. It had been 15 years since you had seen Quaritch, but you preferred when the men you killed stayed dead.

“If he can get me, then he’s welcome to,” he said, not facing you as his eyes searched the sky for any hint of movement.

You struggled against the orange handcuffs that bound your wrists behind your back. “I will make a note of your cooperation,” you answered sarcastically.

“I would appreciate it, Mrs. Sully,” he chuckled, not taking your promise seriously. 

“Your funeral,” you muttered. 

The formerly old man had his goons tie you to a stake in the ground when he captured you. The setting sun beat down mercilessly and you were thankful for the layer of ash and paint on your skin to protect you from being burned, although sometimes you did enjoy the sting.

“How long will it take him to get here?” Quaritch asked, finally tearing his eyes away from the horizon to look at you.

You smiled, resembling a palulukan, your fangs glinting in the dying light. “Can you not feel the stillness? He is here already,” you informed him. The group of recombinant soldiers shifted around nervously, eyes searching the air for any sign of Toruk Makto.

“You’re shittin’ me,” Quaritch called what he thought was your bluff and the words made you giggle.

“I would not dream of it,” you answered calmly.

A screech from the East made all of the Avatar soldiers lift their guns and spin around to face the sound. Simultaneously, an ikran screamed in the opposite direction. 

“If you said your prayers boys, your goddess did not hear you.” You beamed at the sign of salvation. The calvary had come. The sound of beating wings filled the air all around you as the Omatikaya descended from the sky. 

Shots rang out as the recoms aimed their weapons at your clan when the thump thump thump of large wings were heard. Directly overhead, Toruk fell towards you, ash and smoke billowing out from behind him. You cackled at the sight, giddy elation bubbling up in your chest. 

Jake came down from above the group, swooping low and plucking Quaritch up with toruk’s claws. The Colonel’s terrified face deeply satisfied you after he had thoroughly ruined your day. Stealing an innocent girl while she collected herbs in the mountains was just rude.

Quaritch screamed and hollered to be put down and Jake granted his wish. He landed Toruk without letting the Colonel go, causing him to lay prone on the ground as his arms were pinned under the beast. 

You took the moment of chaos to get ahead. You swiveled your feet out from under you and kicked the knees of the closest person. The woman buckled and fell to the rock, ash puffing up around her when she made impact. She rolled over immediately, but you kicked her again, this time in the face. Her skull hit the rocks and her eyes rolled to the back of her head. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you could see when Jake dismounted, spitting on the ground in front of Quaritch as he passed, but otherwise not stopping as he made his way to you.

Around you, soldiers were getting plucked up by ikran and were disappearing into the now inky black sky. You kept low, not wanting to get caught in the cross fire. You maneuvered your hands under your legs so that the handcuffs now sat at the front of your body.

The few Recombanants that were left grouped together, all shooting at the sky, not noticing the Olo’eyktan of the Omatikaya stalking towards them. Red feathers streamed behind him, attached to his mohawk of braids. Over his eyes sat a leather rider's mask with nantang teeth sticking out of the top. A dozen, small metal hoops surrounded the shell of each of his ears and below them hung an ikran fang. They both swayed as he walked.

Paint and ash covered him from head to toe. A vertical red stripe went down half his face, ending at a point at the tip of his nose. Ash covered the surrounding skin, while a black line ran horizontal over his eyes. Red ran from his jawline down to his shoulders, forming an upside down triangle over his chest. You had painted it on his skin this morning. 

He held up his own gun, firing it at the avatars who were picked off quickly. When one ran at him from the side, he unsheathed his knife and plunged it into the man's throat, twisting it so that the man died instantly. He fell like a sack of meat. 

“I knew you would come, Ma’Jake,” you smiled lovingly up at your husband as he took out his knife and flicked off the blood.

“Of course I came, baby. Are you okay? Did they touch you?” he asked, crouching down to press the blade of his knife over the handcuffs. The orange material snapped at the pressure. 

He checked over your body for injuries, before he helped you stand, immediately pulling you in for an embrace.  “I’m good, now that you are here,” you said, laying your head on his chest as you wrapped your arms around his middle.

He pulled away, noticing a discrepancy in your face. “No you’re not, who did this?” he took your chin in his other hand and angled your face to see smudged paint. The revealed skin underneath was purple rather than blue.

You rolled your eyes, forgetting what had happened when they captured you. “Oh yeah, the Colonel was not too happy to see me. I suppose he found out I was the one who killed him last time,” you shrugged. 

“He hit you?” Jake seethed, fangs bared.

You nodded, but smiled. “Do not worry, Ma’ Jake. I promised him that you would give him a slow death,” you drawled, batting your eyelashes at your husband.

“Sounds good to me. Whatever you want, baby,” he smiled wickedly, grabbing your hand and tugging you towards Toruk. 

“Ma’ Olo’ektan,” Tsu’tey called, dismounting from his ikran as he greeted his friend. “Other than the Colonel, they have all been slain, except for one, a coward that fled into the mountains. Neytiri is hunting him down as we speak.” 

“Tsahik, we are glad to see you are safe,” Tsu'tey added.

He bowed his head to you, hair drifting over his shoulder at the action. His paint was perfectly lined, as always. He was known to have a meticulous eye for it. Red was slathered across his chest and down the center of his face. His skin was also covered in self-inflicted scars across his shoulders, one for each of the fallen that died in the fires. A wooden faux claw perched on a necklace, carved from the wood of Hometree.

“Thank you for coming to save me,” you smiled at your husband's advisor and the clan’s most fearsome warrior.

“Very good, Tsu’tey.” Jake nodded, clapping a hand on his back as you passed by, heading towards the hostage.

“Jake,” the Colonel called from under Toruk’s grip. The Great Leonopteryx huffed at the pitiful sound. “We knew each other once. I tried to help you,” he begged and it brought joy to your heart to see him be the one who was scared. 

After he destroyed Hometree and set fire to the forest, there was nothing left but ash and smoke. The fires burned for weeks and your people were forced to rebuild a life from nothing. 

When Jake set down on the ground as Toruk Makto, a new leader emerged. He set up a camp among the rubble with you by his side. The Omatikaya hit supply lines and cargo shipments. You stole guns and medicine and metal weapons. 

The Omatikaya had survived when Eywa had forsaken you and left you to rot. But Quaritch had been the one to order for your home to be blown to ash, the fault laid equally with him.

“You never helped me. You set me up for failure,” Jake hissed. “You never expected me to survive, but here I am, Miles. I am stronger than you, smarter than you. You set me on fire and I emerged from the ashes.”

“Please, Jake, we have guns, weapons. We can make a deal.” Quaritch begged from the dirt.

“I have those. What else do you have to trade me? Blue jeans and lite beer?” Jake snorted. “No, I’ll make my own deal. I’m gonna continue to make raids, taking from the humans a fraction of what they took from us. But one day, we will come at you like a storm that never ends, we will kill every last human on Pandora, starting with you.”

“We were both Marines, you would kill a brother in arms?” Miles scoffed, but it was desperate.

“Yeah, I would. Especially one that hit my woman.” Jake stepped closer to Quaritch, and Toruk stepped away, releasing him from the hold. 

Jake yanked the man up by his vest until his feet were on the ground. “I think I’ll send a message to the skypeople. Baby, what do you think about his hide strung up on the outside of Hell’s Gate?” Jake asked over his shoulder, iron fists still hiking the colonel in the air.

“I like it…” you smiled, but thought more, “And maybe something written in his blood, what should it say, Miles?” You asked, walking around to his back and yanking on his tail hard. 

He hissed at the pain, but did not speak.

“She asked you a question,” Jake growled.

“It is okay, I will come up with something good,” you smiled, circling around again behind Jake, stopping behind his shoulder. “Deal with him, remember the promise I made,” You whispered in his ear, eyes on Quaritch as he grimaced at hearing his fate. 

You traced a hand down Jake’s back and he grinned, shivering slightly at the contact. “Oh, I remember. Go clean up, baby. I got it from here,” he replied, dropping the Colonel on the rocky ground.

You turned and sauntered away to find a ride back to camp. “Be back before dinner,” you ordered over your shoulder.

“Yes ma’am,” he hummed as he took his axe out of his belt.

As he cleaved the axe downward, you heard Quaritch’s scream of pain and the sick crunch of bone, retribution for the suffering you had endured, a repayment of sorts. The Omatikaya people cheered around you, laughing and whooping as the blue colonel died his slow death.

Boys… so easy to entertain.

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[junebugonjupiter]

Like Father, Like Son

Word count: 1.4k

Pairing: Jake and Lo'ak Sully (platonic)

Description: When Jake catches Lo'ak watching old video logs in the lab, they have an honest conversation about their brothers.

Content Warnings: Grief, angst, talk of Neteyam and Tommy's deaths, hopeful ending, there’s no reader in this.

Author's note: Yeah, I'm crying. Based on this request!

Lo’ak had watched the video logs a thousand times. He had memorized his dad’s human face when Lo’ak was only a kid. It helped him feel closer to his dad when he observed the weird patterns on his human arms and the way his brown, mused hair got longer with each new video. 

Now that he was back home in high camp, it was only a matter of time before he found himself in the empty lap late into the night again.

Lo’ak listened to his dad talk about his human friends, Trudy, Norm, Max, and Grace. The characters traipsed through the background as he spoke. They did the boring, everyday human things, like heat food in a microwave and brush their teeth, but it still fascinated Lo’ak. Grace busied herself with washing utensils in the back of the shack as his dad spoke. 

“I can’t believe it's been two months, I feel like it's flown by,” Jake laughed from the monitor. “If Tommy could see me now. Man, he would get a kick out of this, seeing me run around the jungle, becoming a Na’vi? I mean this was all fairytales to us as kids.” Jake shook his head, looking down at the desk in front of him.

The lab door creaked open, but Lo’ak was too immersed in the video to notice. He brought the clear half-mask to his nose and took a deep breath.

“This was Tommy’s dream, not mine, but I can see now why he wanted to leave so bad. I think I’m starting to understand more about him a whole solar system away than I ever could get through my thick skull when we shared the same room,” The screen sighed as Jake rubbed his face. “It’s late, Grace is gonna kill me. Uh, Jake Sully, signing off.”

The video blinked to black as Lo’ak prepared to load up the next one. 

“Son,” his dad’s voice coming from behind him rather than from the computer had his fingers pausing on the screen. He turned around to see his dad standing amidst the equipment and research, watching him carefully.

“What are you doin’?” Jake asked, his Na’vi form a stark contrast from the pink skinned human Lo’ak had just observed for an hour.

Lo’ak pursed his lips before ignoring his dad's question and asking, “Why do you never talk about him?”

Jake’s hair-covered brow furrowed, “Who?” he asked.

“Uncle Tommy,” Lo’ak replied, “These videos are the only information we have about him. I just want to know what he was like.”

Jake sighed, coming nearer to his son, “We were never all that close, not like you and Neteyam,” he explained, one of his hands balling into a loose fist. “By the time we were your age, we were two completely different people. He had already graduated high school early, I was being suspended for getting into fights,” Jake shrugged, a small smile on his face at the thought.

Lo’ak did not know what suspended was, but he got the feeling it was not good. “Do you ever miss him, even though you were not friends?”

Jake recoiled in surprise. “Of course I miss him. I miss him every day. When you’re brothers… that surpasses being friends. It didn’t matter, if Tommy needed me, I would have come running, and I like to think he knew that.”

Lo’ak smiled a little at his next question. “Did he like that you were a marine?”

Jake barked out a quiet laugh, “No, not at all. He said I wasn’t serving our country, that I was just signing up to die on the front lines for the big corporations. Maybe he was right, but… I didn’t listen. I was just looking for something to live for, I guess.” He shrugged. 

He took a deep pull of air from the mask around his neck and Lo’ak was reminded to do the same.

Lo’ak was taken aback at the thought of his dad feeling so hopeless. He had only known him as someone who had everything to fight for. Jake Sully would lay down his life again and again if it meant keeping his family safe. Lo’ak was suddenly thankful that he was not also born on that little dead star so far away.

“When I lost my legs…” Jake wet his lips, searching for the right words, “He was the first one I asked them to call. I knew there was no fixing what had happened to me, but I just wanted him there, and he came. He always did,” Jake said, chest full of the well buried emotions that he tried his best to keep dormant.

“Neteyam came when I needed him,” Lo’ak mumbled quietly. “That’s what killed him.”

“Don’t say that,” Jake stated, gripping his son's shoulder in his hands and begging him to understand. “His death was not your fault,” he insisted. 

There was a time, Jake was ashamed to say, where he grappled with who to blame, clawing desperately to come up with a reason for why Neteyam was no longer here. It had taken him a while, but he eventually realized that it did not matter, he could chase different tails around for years, but the outcome was always the same. Neteyam was still gone.

“If I had just waited-” Lo’ak started, but was interrupted.

“No.” Jake shook his head, stopping him before he got too far down that road. “You did what you thought was right, you both did. No one could blame you for wanting to help Spider. He’s your brother too.”

“Dad…” Lo’ak croaked and Jake;s heart broke to see his son’s tear-filled eyes. “I really miss him.”

The dam in Jake’s chest broke loose as his baby boy looked up at him. Neteyam had so often been the bridge that connected and separated father and youngest son. He had brought them together, softened the blows, and was always ready to step in to take the blame. Without him here, it just left a yawning valley between them that would not be easily closed. 

But Jake knew he had to try.

“I know, son. I do too,” he said, tears welling up and he clapped Lo’ak on the back, bringing him in for a hug. 

He remembered so vividly the days when he and Lo’ak were close. Before the battles and rage and war, when Lo’ak had been just a boy learning to stand on his own two skinny legs, and Jake had been the one to show him how. They would hunt together, train together, make fun of mom’s cooking together until they were caught and Jake would claim it was all Lo’ak.

Now, Lo’ak had scars on his skin and in his heart. He was growing up. Metkayina tattoos littered his body, a chest guard fitted securely to his front that matched Jake’s a little too closely to be coincidental.

One day, Jake knew he would look at his son and stop seeing all of the ghosts of his past stare back. 

Lo’ak had never met his uncle, but Jake still saw Tommy’s stubbornness, his pride. He saw him in the way Lo’ak’s shoulders tensed or his eyes laughed. Some Sully traits were too strong to stamp down, even across species.

But Jake also saw Neteyam. It was in the mannerisms the older brother had taught the younger brother, like how he always shifted on his feet when he was in trouble or how his humor showed his true thoughts better than simple words ever could. He saw their bond, tightly woven and unbreakable, so strong that it transcended death.

But Lo’ak most closely resembled a much younger, stupider version of Jake and that was what scared him. It was in his defiance, his unwavering dedication to do what he thought was best and to damn the consequences. It terrified him, because he knew Lo’ak would make the same pitfalls he had, and the only thing that would make Lo’ak grow up, was to let him trip. 

Jake wanted so badly to just put Lo’ak in a bubble, to protect him from harm and heartbreak again, but that wasn’t how this worked. Yet, as Jake pulled away from Lo’ak to smile sadly down at his son, he realized that he was already becoming more of a man than Jake ever was at his age, and it gave him hope. 

He knew, without a doubt, that Lo’ak would be smarter, more hardened and ready than Jake had been. He would make it through the pitfalls that tripped him with a victorious battle cry and still manage to have a smile on his face. 

“I see you, Lo’ak. I don’t say it enough, but I do,” Jake promised earnestly.

“I know, Dad.” Lo’ak’s lips curled up at the edges as he nodded. “I see you too.”

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[dqjinx]

[gayeddies]

i miss fandom before ai. there was no risk of accidentally reading an ai generated fic based on stolen material. i don't want to stumble upon ai generated videos my ship kissing and see comments like "this is what ai should be used for". i don't want to see gifs of those ai generated kisses when i browse for fun reactions gifs of them. i don't want ai generated photos and definitely not ai generated art. i don't want ai to be part of my community and i definitely don't want to hear anything about anyone using it because they "can't write" or they "can't draw".

there's no valid excuse for anyone to use ai. use your imagination.

[yenyenyen19]

Mangkwan Jake from Twitter

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[jakesullyblr]

[ccinamons]

jake sully in avatar 3 had me drooling